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"For Robespierre, Roman antiquity was a past charged with the here-and-now, which he exploded out of the continuum of history. The French revolution thought of itself as a latter day Rome. It cited ancient Rome exactly the way fashion cites a past costume. Fashion has an eye for what is up-to-date, wherever it moves in the jungle [Dickicht: maze, thicket] of what was. It is the tiger's leap into that which has gone before . . ."

\- Walter Benjamin

AN ANTHOLOGY OF THE AAR

Introduction

What is an AAR and why an anthology of AARs?

I remember a few years ago watching a TV program called Time Commanders which allowed a team to take control of a classical army and fight an AI opponent in real time. As an avid war-gamer in my youth I was impressed with the graphics and gameplay and duly decided to buy the game which was behind this TV program. This was my first introduction to the Total War series and that first game was Rome: Total War, created by Creative Assembly. Very quickly, my life became one long round of empire-building and real-time battles using Roman legionaries against hordes of barbarians and much fun was had and still is! It was then that I discovered an online community called Total War Centre - a place primarily for players and fans to communicate, ask questions, pose problems and - more importantly - build modifications to the main game so that it became more 'realistic' or indeed added more depth to some of the underdeveloped aspects of the game. This last element, the modding aspect, is a crucial part of the Total War Centre online community and several mods have become established as classics in their own right. Mods such as Europa Barbarorum, Roma Surrectum, and Invasio Barbarorum, to name but a few of the dozens of mods, caught my attention and in the end my love of the Late Roman period allowed me to download and play the last one mentioned in particular. I immersed myself both in the mod's details of that period and those fellow players who contributed to the forum. It was then that I stumbled into the whole AAR side of things and discovered another aspect to the online community.

In a nutshell, the After Action Report is an ongoing write-up of a single player's campaign as it is played. The player will fictionalise the campaign by using and role-playing some or many of the AI characters given to him in the game as it develops. These characters range from important generals to spies and ambassadors down to local commanders and even merchants and priests - all of whom will accrue traits as they survive the battles and intrigues to follow. The most basic form of the AAR will involve a player introducing himself and the mod/game he is playing, which particular faction he will be using, and some of his overall objectives and rules. He will then update periodically with in-game shots of the campaign world map and also battle pics to illustrate how his tactics are working (or not!). Often these AARs will tail-off after a few updates as the campaign stalls or a save game becomes corrupt or the player becomes involved in real-life issues and no longer has time to update on a regular basis.

Other AARs however stay the course and over a long period of time, readers will journey along with the player over the mishaps, the triumphs and the sometimes bizarre things the AI does within the game. The faction rises into a serious power in the world and major characters grow up and then die or are killed as the years and decades move by. These AARs make for addictive reading because you are invited in to see another player and the choices he makes. There are even AARs which allow you to decide some of the next moves to come. On the whole these AARs allow the wider community to feel connected and involved in an ongoing online world.

Behind these AARs emerge other versions however and these strike a different tone or approach. These AARs focus much more on the internal world and the characters and far less on the outside player. They draw you into a fictionalised world and only dimly do you perceive the larger game mechanics in the background. Emperors collude with assassins as generals train troops while fleets are assembled - but in these AARs you do not see so much the choices the player is making as you are privy to the choices the characters are forced to make. Drama emerges as a real dynamic and fate or tragedy stands closely in the wings as a surrogate for the player's choices.

Reading these AARs as a writer, I was soon struck by the variation in approach in the whole AAR genre: from the game-play openness, to the internal dramatic perspective, to finally AARs where you would not even know what the wider gaming mechanic was - so far into its fictional world were you thrown. These AARs also sprouted daily and weekly - some falling away, others updating week by week and gaining loyal readers and feedback. Soon competitions were emerging such as the Monthly After Action Report and Tale of the Week. Inspired by the game mechanics and the lush visuals, player after player aspired to put pen to paper and write a cracking story. Very quickly I could see a sort of continuum within the AAR genre: at one end what I call the documentary approach in which the player narrates or shows in-game pics of his campaign, often looking for advice or feedback, to the film approach where the game becomes dressing for a story within the campaign. There is no absolute difference between these two approaches but rather a sliding scale between them.

As the months passed I fell into the AAR world more than I did playing the game. I launched my first tentative AAR and waited nervously to see how it would be received. Alas, my main character died early on and the AAR ended as a result - but it allowed me to see the possibilities as a writer not only in the genre itself as a writing medium but also in the readership side of it; the feedback and criticism which was offered up. That was about 3 years ago and since that time I have written several AARs and have got to know several fellow writers within the Total War Centre community.

Which I suppose leads me back to my original question: why an anthology of AARs? What has struck me most over the last few years is the sheer quality of the writing and the genre itself. So I began to wonder on the validity of this whole AAR thing. Was it just 'fan-fiction' or was something far more interesting happening here? As a writer who had studied Creative Writing at University and indeed studied narrative theory to post-grad level, I soon realised that as a writing medium the AAR occupies a unique ground: it is primarily a text-based medium illustrated with in-game shots which is born out of a reactive format, i.e. the game-play itself. Unlike a traditional writer who is able to shape and control his or her narrative, the AAR writer - no matter how expertly he sets up the opening story - must at some point deal with what the AI will do and then incorporate it into the narrative. Battles may be lost. Characters assassinated. Fleets drowned in a sudden storm. In other words, the AAR genre itself lays out-with the control of the writer to some degree - and this last element brought a certain tension into the reading in that one never knew for certain what was going to happen next no matter how conventional the narrative was.

Narrative has rules. It has conventions. It has expectations. All of which can be subverted wilfully, of course. Narrative is also adaptive and reflexive. It can comment on itself in the moment of its vocalisation or what certain theorists call the enounce. It can wink at the reader and make him or her complicit in its codes even as it breaks them. Narrative is a shared discourse between writer, reader and that wider cultural mesh we live in which sets up expectations. I suppose what I am trying to say here is that all story-telling by definition is grounded in a certain set of shared assumptions which may then be subverted or not.

These rules allow the story to be understood and therefore need to be respected to a certain degree - or else the reader is at sea as to how to read the story. There is an old adage in aesthetic theory that the reader/viewer completes the text. Without a reader, the story does not exist. Without a viewer, the painting will not be seen. These theories of narrative imply a triadic structure in which the writer/reader/ structure intertwine in an endless M. C. Escher like revolve, moving inside and then outside each other, never standing firm or absolute. Because also at the end of the day reading and writing is pleasure, too, and that pleasure is always bound up in the eternal guessing game of what will happen next.

And this strikes to the heart of the AAR genre and why I as a writer find it so fascinating to both read and write it. It introduces a super-structure into the mix beyond the triadic form mentioned above. The Fourth Partner, that of the AI game itself, that unpredictable player who lives on only in the digital ghost world of binary code and luminescent pixels. That flawed broken unseen hand which moves the characters and the armies and the fleets and the weather despite our best narrative intentions.

I remember writing a year or so ago an AAR entitled 'The End of the Line' - it was detailing a story in which two disparate legions would be forced to stand together in a lonely battle-line against insurmountable odds and in doing so would find a new-born respect for each other. It was a classic set-up, narrative-wise. Tension and antagonism is a heady-mix for a writer to play with and immediately allows a reader to choose sides and find sympathies. So there they were, these two legions, deep in a desert awaiting the advance of a massive Persian army which would annihilate them. Unknown to the reader, however, a surprise force of Romans under the Augustus Julian waited nearby. The emperor was using these two legions as bait to draw out the Persians. It was a perfect dramatic set-up with a massive pay-off, story-wise - and would be the beginning of a larger story as I followed the fates of these two legions joined together now for all time . . . So I wrote the last update leading up to battle, launched the game and drilled down into the battlefield itself to fight it out with the Persians. My writing pen was ready to take notes of the battle details so that I could use it as material later on. I hit the start button and got ready to defend the Roman lines - only to watch in dismay as the AI promptly evacuated the field of battle as if it knew what I was planning. I played it again, gritting my teeth in frustration - and again the AI upped standards and left and then again on a third attempt.

My story - the whole AAR was scuppered. The AI trumped me.

And that is for me one of the fascinating aspects of this genre - that hidden invisible structure against which we as writers must play. The AAR lies always in tension even within its own narrative. As writers we therefore develop a peculiar sensitivity to our own writing in that it may at any moment not go the way we wish it to - and therefore we must not only adapt the narrative but also present that adaption as somehow natural and logical within the world we are crafting for the reader. It is an oddly demanding genre quite unlike other writing mediums and breeds a writer who stands as a result half-way between an author and an improviser. I suspect the AAR writer may be deep inside something of a masochist!

But this brings me to the final aspect of the AAR: namely the love of whatever period each AAR is set in. These are alternate worlds of fiction set in a heavily researched or admired period. These writers enjoy speculating about the people and events in these resurrected worlds - be it of Rome, or Japan, or Christendom of the Crusades. Reading these AARs one is constantly struck by the passion and the knowledge on display no matter how much events derail from what actually happened in the past. The game becomes not so much a diversion as an opportunity for a writer to use this super-structure to delve deep into the very essence of how to tell a story - and the writing act is given strength and confidence by the writer's skill in that period he is writing about. Many AAR writers indeed write far more than they do actually playing the game, exploring, researching, testing out stories, against a backdrop which will on occasion throw them a curve-ball!

And it is for this reason if for no other that I wanted to launch an anthology of such work into a wider reading community - to share the passion and the quality of the writers' work; to expose them to a readership outside the normal Total War Centre community; to finally celebrate this work as a writing genre worthy of its own aesthetic. Perhaps it is just fan-fiction or gaming notes at the end of the day but my instinct tells me that here within this gaming community, deep down in that AAR forum, real quality is emerging which stands little comparison to other genres. I suspect that really I want to do is legitimise this genre and share it with a wider audience.

So, welcome to the first volume in an ongoing series! Here I take great pleasure in presenting six AARs which will take you from the life of an auxiliary soldier in the service of Rome, to the machinations of the great clan Takeda in a time of war and bloodshed, to the lonely fevered mind of Severus exiled in a Pictish land, to the shadow of Rome in that awful and magnificent city of Constantinople, to fifteenth century Cyprus, and finally to the Crusades and the twists and turns of that period and its desperate peoples. Below you will find the first episodes of each story. Over the following months as each volume is subsequently published, these stories will take you deeper and deeper into their worlds. New AARs will be introduced to enrich these and open up new worlds to you also.

The following AARs were volunteered and selected based primarily on the quality of the stories and have been presented in such a way that the usual in-game shots have been removed. The idea here is to present the writing itself as the main focus; to again celebrate the diversity and richness of that writing. As with all writing, there are quirks and idioms of speech here which very much preserve the style of the writer. English may not be the first language and as an editor I have decided to allow these quirks to stand - for in them charm and pleasure lies. We read a writer's effort to write and that is a pleasure all its own.

FRANCIS HAGAN

Editor and publisher \- Francis Hagan

Spite of Severus \- Stephen M Tutin

An Eastern Jewel in a Western World \- Sébastien Arondel

Takeda \- Robin Zhu

Heaven's Descent \- Gilberto Fonte

Serving Your Oppressor \- James Boyd

Restoring Rome \- J. McKean

The Spite of Severus
Introduction

This story was inspired by playing a war-game (to be exact: Total War: Barbarian Invasion using the fan-created mod Invasio Barbarorum). Some of my very earliest attempts at fiction were of this sort. I still have the crudely-written journal I created of a war played with Airfix figures on a card table, inspired by a fascination with the diagrams of the shifting fronts in WW2 campaigns.

Well, I am older now and the games I play are more sophisticated, but a nagging curiosity about the 'reality' behind the game still remains.

This particular game divides ancient Europe into competing factions (the equivalent of nations). One is human-controlled and the computer plays all of the others. The game directly models only the ruling families and the military units, everyone else being just part of the population statistics of major settlements. So the kind of story that naturally emerges is an heroic epic, with the protagonist leading great armies to victory after victory as the player carves his way through computer-controlled enemies.

Feeling uncomfortable with the prospect of writing about a precursor to Superman, I chose instead to take the viewpoint of someone in his entourage. This gave my protagonist a lot more freedom of action and allowed him to be ambivalent about the heroic leader (me) in action.

The game setting is 410 AD, the date when the Roman Empire withdrew from Britannia. It is a wonderful time for stories because the successor kingdoms to Rome in Western Europe left very little in the way of written history to contradict the free flight of an author's imagination.

The text has a sprinkling of Latin words to help remind the reader of the setting. A spatha is the standard late-Roman sword. A maniple is the late-Roman equivalent a Republican cohort (around a hundred men). A vexillation is a squadron of cavalry (perhaps 50 men). With place names I will leave you to look them up if interested

CHAPTER I

Manifesto

I am Octavius Severus Alexander, and let it be known that I am destined to follow my ancestors on the road to greatness. I am no ordinary man, for I am of a line of Emperors of Rome and perhaps someday I too will become Emperor in my turn. If this comes to pass then I will take the corrupt and diminished Empire of the West in hand and help to raise it up again to its former glory.

But it will not be the love of the people that propels me to my appointed station, the folk here in Britannia are narrow-minded, self-serving, bigoted and cowardly. They are too stupid to recognise my worth, seeing only the Pictish cast of my features and the perceived illegitimacy of my lineage.

My ancestor Septimius Severus conquered Rome by force as an honest soldier, he never stooped to the lies, betrayals and plots of the decadent patricians. I shall emulate him, those in Britannia who have thwarted me shall be pressed into the mud beneath my sandals and my spatha will render their bodies as empty of blood as they are now of morals.

It is said that I resemble my noble ancestor, my Aunt Severa has seen a bust of him in Ravenna and she attests that I could be taken for his son. I hold this casual observation close to my heart, for I truly feel with my very essence that a golden way stretches out ahead for me, perhaps placed there by the God Janus himself – master of paths and doorways, of endings and beginnings. I will travel that road, and nothing will turn me from it. I will leave it to posterity to justify my actions - for the people here, by their very indifference to me, have already condemned themselves as unworthy.

Soon I will return to my homeland in Britannia, I will deal with the usurpers in the same manner that my illustrious ancestor dealt with an earlier traitor – the vile Clodius Albinus. I am a just man and I vow that they will receive justice. They will be humbled, their worthless lives ended, and their ugly flaccid bodies cast down at the side of the road for the carrion birds to feed upon.

Lost Glory

Britannia is a poisonous place (I should know as I have lived all of my life here). Every time a new pretender for Emperor is declared, he takes the treasure and young men of this land and neither are ever seen here again. As a result we now live in a province peopled disproportionately by the descendants of the cowardly, the criminal and the lame.

The aristocracy are of local descent, degenerate progeny of the warriors who fell before the Emperor Claudius in the first days of Empire. They ape the manners of Italia while at the same time showing their contempt for its rulers. I can trace my own family line back 200 years to the last days of the great Emperor Severus, and yet even that is insufficient for this puny nobility to accept me as one of their own.

In the last days of his reign, the Emperor Severus came to Britannia to push back the Barbarians and reclaim the wall of Hadrian. Sadly he died here in Eburicum with his task still unfinished, succumbing not to the barbarians, but to some malaise brought on by our cold and wet climate.

However, before his untimely death, he had finally lost patience with the machinations and political manoeuvring of Julia Domna his wife. He cast her aside and took himself a new wife of Pictish stock – a princess of the tribes of the barbaricum, but by that very token anathema to the Romano-British. I have often pondered on this seemingly spontaneous act that gave rise to my line, perhaps this was some affair of politics. I am well aware of the way that Pictish alliances constantly shift, often making direct military action against them fruitless. Today's allies and enemies are just as likely to have their roles reversed next year, and the very effectiveness of your past victories risk leaving your new allies so weak they are of little assistance.

Thus it is that I am of a doubly noble lineage, and yet both strands of it are hateful to the Romano-British and they exclude me from their largesse out of bile and jealousy. This is all the more galling because we face external foes who must laugh long and hard at the sight of our dissension.

Maintaining the Saxon Shore has been a mighty task these last several decades, and the whole economy of Britannia has been warped by its needs. Indeed almost everyone of property has some connection with its upkeep. My family are important merchants and traders, still true to the tradition of the family of Emperor Severus (his own mother being of the Fulvius gens with plebian roots). Without us, the Saxon Shore would be a mere line of ruins, sheltering the very bandits we strive to hold at bay.

Ironically, the military of recent years has become so large that I was able to aspire to real power within it. When Constantine III, following the familiar arc of pretender-Emperors, took the last legions of Britannia to support his hubris in Gaul, my own chance finally came. New field forces were required to replace the lost legions, and men of substance and treasure were needed to raise them. Having spent much of my life ingratiating myself with the high officials of the Imperial administration, I was finally able to secure the Prefecture of the northern march in return for soldiers raised through the wealth of my family.

But all these ambitions were to be cruelly dashed thanks to a single thoughtless message from the Divine Honorius, Emperor of the West.

I was uniquely qualified to hold the north, my family have (by virtue of their ancestry) extensive links with the Picts and former Romano-British beyond the Limes. Even after the Roman administration had withdrawn and the looting had subsided, the people there still had a taste for the luxuries of Empire, while the province of Britannia still needed the slaves and wild game that the northern lands could supply in such abundance.

There are many petty Pictish Kings and I have always been able to find favour with one or another of them. Even when some Picts were raiding us and the administration in Londinium were panicking like cornered hares, there were always other factions who were prepared to trade with me.

But then disaster struck in the form of those ill-considered words of Honorius. Britannia had disavowed the usurper Constantine III and we had declared ourselves once more loyal to the Emperor, but his only response was to reject us! He told us to look to our own defences, meaning that we were being invited to raise a new military at our own expense, then surrender its control to the whims of Ravenna. The local nobility would not stand for this, and their response was to expel the Imperial administrators and declare Britannia independent!

The New Kingdom

The coup was swift and merciless. The Imperial administrators were either bribed or rounded up and bundled onto boats to Gaul (one can only wonder what the Emperor made of these people, and whether their recent but transient loyalty to himself saved them from the gibbet).

The assets and businesses of my family were sequestered by the new kingdom leaving us destitute. I was also stripped of my command of the Northern March and cronies of Vitalinus elevated in my place. Even his marriage to my Aunt Severa does not seem sufficient to admit me to his inner circle of in-bred kleptomaniac cretins.

Vitalinus now rules in Londinium as Vortigern (High King) and his worthless sons are provincial governors. Ironically it is the most worthless of these, Vortimer, who he has placed in control of my home town of Eburacum, bastion against Pictish incursions from the north.

Bad as things are, even the worst disaster often has some redeeming feature, in this case it is that a large army of Saxon raiders had landed near Venta Icenorum and now has the full attention of the Vortigern and his more effective son, Madrun.

I can only hope that those stinking barbarians will give him pause while I try to recover some of what I have lost. You wonder why I do not cast my lot with the Saxons? Well I must tell you that I refuse to deal with them, partly due to their of worship of barbarian gods, but mostly because after you think you've closed a bargain with them, they generally come back that night with a few hundred of their friends and burn your house down.

As for the West, there is little trustworthy news from there these days. Aurelius Ambrosias struggles against the Irish raids and encroachments with a scratch force that must surely subsist more on dreams than the more mundane ingredients of money, patronage and fine weaponry that the pampered nobles of Vitalinus display to such little effect in the East.

I have heard that Vitalinus now struts the plazas of Londinium, proclaiming his Christian piety to one and all. He says that the Emperor is a godless man, and that only those pure of faith may hold high office. What hypocrisy this is! Does he speak of his purity with his concubines?

Anyway, he is not a Christian at all, but a secret follower of the Horned God Cernunnos! I of all people should know this since I once supplied the slave girls for his bestial rites. The bloody altar of his god gives ample evidence to their likely fate after he had had his fill of them.

But of course this prattle about Christianity is but an instrument of policy. My publicly known allegiance to Janus was the only excuse they needed to expel me from my command. In my place was put a priest-turned-soldier Caratacus Sanctus, and his son Sennianus. For a while I toyed with the idea of telling Caratacus about the predilections of his blessed Vortigern, but sadly the man was an obvious non-entity with no power above that given him by the Vortigern himself.

In the end I have no real choice, my remaining influence and resources now lie within Pictavia, so that is where I must go if there is to be any chance of recovering what is rightfully mine.

Exile

It was with a heavy heart that I made arrangements to leave Britannia. I knew that as soon as my flight became known, I would be ostracised and my remaining property seized by the carrion birds from the Vortigern's outer circle of hangers-on. My first step was to send my wife and children to Deva Victrix, the power of the Vortigern was weak there, Coel Hen being a true Roman and his allegiance to the Vortigern little more than a token.

Completing the preparations at my villa outside Eburacum, I found myself with time to spare (since my party was going to leave under cover of darkness). This had been the seat of my family for a hundred years. Every room, every mosaic, every outlook was heavy with the weight of memory and the lost emotions of childhood.. The thought of some worthless protégée of the Vortigern trailing his filth through this place, beating my slaves and throwing up on my couches filled me with a black rage. I vowed that when I returned, this place would be cleansed and the scum who possessed it would either fuel the furnace, or be staked out for the pleasure of the wolves who came down nightly from their lairs in the forests of the Pennine foothills.

To pay my final respect to my soon-to-be lost home, I stood and contemplated my fresco of the family of the Emperor Severus. The noble Emperor stood surrounded by his weak and traitorous family. He looked old and frail, Julia his wife strong and resolute. His sons Caracalla and Geta are shown as children, even though when the fresco was painted they were grown men. Sadly the visage of Geta is defaced, a relic of his murder by Caracalla. Of course there is no image here or anywhere else of the Pictish princess who is my ancestor. If only the Emperor had lived a little longer Julia's power might have been destroyed – but it seems likely to me that his death was most likely ordered by Julia herself to prevent just this turn of events.

Finally there were no more excuses to wait, and so we set off, bodyguards, a few slaves and a some of my closest advisers. My own personal maniple so to speak. We kept to the high ground and travelled by moonlight.

On the third night we passed the eastern base of the new garrison of the north without challenge. They seemed to be mostly confined to their castra, with just a few guards posted along the road and no one at all in the hills through which we bypassed them. Perhaps Caratacus was preoccupied with "chastising" his slaves to appease his Christian god.

Two days later we came upon the Great Wall of Severus at Vercovicium, its central point high in the Pennines. Despite the depredations of locals taking stone for their buildings, the castra still stood tall and proud, thrusting out from the wall into the Barbaricum, a witness to our lost greatness.

I remembered being brought here (on business) by my father as a child, before the Legions left. There was a cohort of Tungrians from Legio II Augustus that had defended the castra for many years, tall pale men of northern Germania, their accented Latin hard to understand and their adoption of Christianity a mere token. I recalled the pagan charms that many of them wore around their necks tucked beneath their tunics, and the rank smell of the grease they rubbed on themselves to ward off the cold.

Of course one advantage of the withdrawal of the Legions was a reduction in our business overheads, those damned Tungrians were very expensive to bribe, so much so that father seriously considered the expense and risk of transporting our goods by sea.

Even in its ruin, Vercovicium still impressed me. It was a testament to the strength of Emperor Severus, who had converted the pathetic earthwork of his predecessor Hadrian into one of the Wonders of the World. Compared to this, the castra of Caratacus down on the Eburacum road was hardly more than a legionary marching camp. Sadly the attached vicus had been abandoned after the heavy fighting during the last great raid of the Picts and now no one lived here at all. We were able to ride right through the broken gates and out into Pictavia proper.

Although Romans tend to think of Pictavia as a single dark malevolent entity, it is in reality a constantly shifting patchwork of alliances and strongmen. The current High-King, Angus of the Dal Riata, is not even a Pict, but a Gael. His faction holds a well-populated region in the west, with many immigrants from the Scotii tribes in Ireland.

Angus came to power in the aftermath of the great raid of three years ago. The raid had been beaten off by that fine soldier Coel Hen (now governor in Wales) with much loss to both sides and the Pictish coalition that had mounted it collapsed. The price had been particularly heavy amongst the Pictish nobility, with the deaths of several kings and all but one of Angus' own grown sons. Angus found himself heir to the vacant crown of the Verturiones of Fortriu (a region containing the site of Agricola's abandoned stronghold of Inchtuthill, the most northerly Roman settlement that has ever existed).

Now controlling fully half of Pictavia, Angus was de-facto high-king, but inevitably the strongest of his rivals had begun to conspire against him. Cinioc of the Taexali skulked in the highlands envious of the wealth of Dal Raida, while Drest of the Venicones threatened to wrest Inchtuthill back from Angus before it could be properly assimilated.

My party being large enough to discourage bandits, I felt safe stopping at small villages to learn of current events. I had many contacts and allies among the Picts, but now I wanted to do much more than just organise a smuggling expedition or arrange an ambush, I needed a new Pictish coalition with which to punish the Vortigern and re-establish my power in Britannia.

Then, at yet another village, we came upon a party of scouts and learned that Angus was nearby with his army. By all logic I should have been fearful and dispirited at the magnitude of my ambition, and yet I felt an elation and a confidence in my powers, even though I did not yet know how I was going to achieve my purpose, I nevertheless had an unshakeable belief that a way would open for me.

Trailer

At this point the game that inspired the story is just about to start. I was playing as the Picts, Angus is my faction-leader and therefore effectively my avatar for the events in the game. This means that Severus is going to have to very quickly find a way to cosy up to Angus if he wants to be anything more than a peripheral character in the unfolding drama to come.

An Eastern Jewel

I'm called Philippe, as my father, Philippe Auguste, the well-known king of France. I'm the third son of the family and therefore, my civil position is one of the best all around our holy kingdom. Seemingly, I'm lucky. In fact, my life is all but lucky. Here is my trouble story, and it starts years ago now.

I remember clearly when I was playing in the front of my father house in the countryside of Acres. I was called Muhammad Sahadeddine, and my father was a rich Arabic merchant. He was daily dealing with the Frankish lords of the kingdom of Jerusalem, sending them eastern products he was getting from Bagdad, like his grandfather before, and all our known ancestors.

My memories are bad but I still remember the times spent between the arms of my mother, seeing the great cogs in the city harbor, where men coming from the other part of the world, were spreading in the kingdom, searching for glory but behaving mostly like evils.

The crusaders. The holy warriors...

Once, it came during my 5th, that a new man coming directly from France started governing our Kingdom future. Guy de Lusignan. Nothing more than the second son of a random French aristocratic family. And it was a bad luck. Lords of the kingdom weren't unified, Guy would like to fight Saladin, and the dark days arrived...

The ambiance between religions was becoming worst each day. Some fanatic crusaders would like to forbid Muslims and Jewish the right to live in the kingdom. One sad morning, my father was slaughtered in the streets by some evil crusaders, and my mother, fearing for my fate, sent me to the Lord of Acre: Conrad de Boulogne. I remember my cries. I remember the sobs of my mother. Conrad decided to send me, with other rich Arabic orphans, to the Royal Court of Paris, with the first merchant boat leaving the harbor. Conrad was one close friend of Philippe Auguste, king of France.

And amazingly, the king decided to bring me up in the Royal family, with the other royal boys and girls. I learnt later that he was interested to know if there were differences between boys coming from such different part of the world. To sum up, I was his "little experiment". Obviously, I wasn't supposed at all to be king or even a lord, but I was living in the royal family during my childhood. I enjoyed my youth with my "brother" Michel, just one year more than me. Louis, the Royal Dauphin, was old enough to be fighting in the south of France and I've hardly seen him.

After the first times of exile, I started to forget my previous life in Palestine. I enjoyed good times with Michel, practicing sophisticated jokes against maids who were supposed to look after us. We were sometimes walking in the dark streets of Paris and I experienced for the first time the view of the snow. I slowly started to be used with that host country.

France was not in war, but a lot of rebels were annoying the royal king and the nobility. The feudal parceling of the territory was a source of rebellion and several lords were proclaiming their independency against the Royal Kingdom. My brother Louis was fighting in the South against Cathars heretics and some war-lords were maintaining peace in the North.

France feared about the Normand-English yokels and also the Holy Empire threat in their back. But they were keeping quiet since dozens of years. Some skirmishes happened sometimes between royal strength and bloody rebels.

I remember well some veterans who were telling kids stories of epic battles, of adventures. Their scars faces were the remains of rebel's arrows and swords, and watching that, I was also hoping to be a man who could be as chivalric as my father, as fearful as my brother, as brave as Charlemagne himself.

Family speaking, my only "sister", Marie Capet, has been sent in Normandy, just after I arrived in France. In theory, she was supposed to have diplomatic relations with the English snakes, but this damned girl felt in love with the bastard son of the English King. It was supposed to be because of the accent. Philippe Auguste could have slaughtered even the Pope when he heard this new. But unfortunately, he wasn't able to kill his "fucking" daughter, hidden behind Caen walls. The old man would have surely loved to wash the dishonor of an English rape thanks to the honor of a French sword.

He decided to slaughter some rebel's lords in the North of France instead.

In the same time, Louis, my elder brother, had the "amazing" idea to marry the Novgorod daughter, Anastasia, unofficially because of the exotic hair and accent. It helped the kingdom to find an ultimate ally, the "fearful" Novgorod Empire. Even some peasants were joking about that ridiculous alliance.

Louis was very annoyed about these rumors and started to become a fearsome lord of war, annihilating some Cathars villages and raping girls during his Chevauchées. He was known as "Louis sans merci". Even one hundred spears raised against him couldn't stop his fighting spirit and deadly arm.

My father wasn't very pleased about that fearful kid because he was the exact opposite, Saint of the Knights patron. He loved chivalry more than his wife and required one tournament a week to be fully satisfied. He was also proud of his crown and sword which were both from Charlemagne. I was often asking him to touch Joyeuse, the wonderful diamond incrusted sword. Deadly wonderful.

These were the only news I remember from my French early childhood. I stayed in Paris, with Michel. We were sometime fighting with wooden swords. And I was always the "Sarasin", when he was the holy knight, crusader for the Pope. Philippe, my "father", quite enjoyed to see these battles but was pretty disappointed at the end because each time, the "holy crusader" was slain on the floor...

Ah!!!! Lucky and felicitous childhood . . .

Around 10, I started to understand who I really was and I didn't know which side to choose. The side of my beloved parents, the side of the "Sarasin", oppressed in the Iberia peninsula, oppressed in the Kingdom of Jerusalem . . . or the side of my host family, the side of the honor and chivalric tournaments, the side of Joyeuse and Charlemagne, the side of Michel, my friendly "brother" . . .

I was sure about one thing. My enemy was the Pope that I considered as the main responsible of this disaster, the responsible of the death of my father and family because he sent those bloody crusaders in my motherland. The enemy was called Pope Alexander III of Patrimonium Sancti Petri. The relations with the kingdom of France weren't enthusiastic at all. I often heard Philippe insulting him in front of other lords because of his lack of gratitude. And this "dirty rat" of Pope was only 43 years old.

I could only hope that some cardinals will help him to be buried sooner than expected.

My mind stayed youth and impressionable but I was explained what war was. I was explained the rudiments of political strategy. And I was also explained who were our hereditary enemies: the swine English's. In the same time, my elder brother succeeded to have a son with his Russian lady, unfortunately spoiling her during the achievement. She was said unlikely to bless France with another son and potential heir. But Philippe was proud enough to have a grandson and organized 2 weeks of banquets. The kingdom was starting to be rich.

I was 10, and still in Paris. The devious devil, I mean the Pope obviously, had decided to launch a new Crusade against Cordoba, the Moorish's capital. I was quite angry, despite my youth because I assimilated the Moorish with my old life, actually as every Muslim Kingdom of the world. Obviously, I was more concerned about playing with Michel and other kids of the Royal court, but when I could hear Philippe or other nobles talking about the Crusade, I was suddenly attentive and serious.

My fearsome brother saw there the perfect occasion. He entered the Crusade without my father approval. Philippe was totally upset because we had no deal with the Moorish, and it is Castellans problems, not French's. I remember him almost breaking Louis's statue in the royal castle with Joyeuse in one powerful blow.

However, Louis was fearsome, but also wit. He hired loads of knights around Toulouse and decided to capture Narbonne, the last Cathar's great town. There were heretic's hordes and it wasn't difficult for him to ask crusaders going there for a quick visit of courtesy.

Messengers reported Louis fought himself in the melee, and fought well, risking his proper life. But not for honor, just because of the bloody taste in the edge of his sword.

I was terrified to hear about that fearsome brother. Furthermore I learnt that he was totally against my semi "adoption" because I was seen as a dishonor for the French Royal Family. He even threatened to go in rebellion when my father adopted me but he finally resigned. When my father honored me with his own first name: "Philippe", Louis was reported to fail dying of suffocation.

Louis succeeded to capture Narbonne, and it was not very good news for me. In secret, I would have preferred him to be killed by a peasant spear. At the opposite, France's people, from the nobility till the miserable peasants around the countryside, were pleased about that news because they were waiting for fight, for conquest, and for glory.

Louis was there for butchery, but sometimes, butchery rimes with glory . . .

My father Philippe decided to celebrate this new era of conquest by ordering 2 new weeks of parties. At the end of these grand feasts, I celebrated my 11th birthday. I would have preferred to stay all day in my bed, better than doing a day more of celebrations.

I was waiting for adventure, revenge and conquests . . .

Not for luxury, food and gifts...

Around my 13th, we heard that the sob crusade of that whore of Pope had succeeded. Unfortunately for the French, it was the Castellans who had the supreme "honor" to achieve it. It was reported that Louis arrived just at the end of the fights and was forbidden the entry of the city by the new owners. I couldn't imagine how upset he should have been. After 2 months of forced walk inside the deserted Iberian peninsula . . . Better not to be in his army at that time.

Apart for that, the life was going as usual in Paris and the Kingdom. As usual in our feudal country, some French lords loved to show their nobility and chivalry in the war-field. These acts of glory were played and sung everywhere in the kingdom by hordes of troubadours, at my great pleasure.

I soon reached the age of 14th, avoiding diseases and death. It was not easy to live in Paris because of all the dump in every street. Fortunately, I was able to ride and also to go to the university. The well-known and recent Paris University. Instead of going in strike like my fellows comrades, I was learning the sciences and the history. It helped me understand better the history of my people, and to hate better our piggy Pope.

I remember that I was learning the principle of Archimedes, applied to the floating materials, when a hysterical librarian rushed screaming everywhere. Annoyed about that noise, I kindly ordered her to shut up if she didn't want her blood used for my next physical exercises.

She cried, arguing that, in all cases, it will be the same because Paris was besieged by the "invincible general Edward".

\- "Invincible Edward?" I repeated.

I asked her if it was the famous English swine king. But she replied angrily that it wasn't an English swine, but a Flanders general.

I rushed out, went to the top of the city walls, and saw a nice Flanders's army making its quarters outside the suburbs. But Edward wasn't really a respectable lord and I thought he could have no chance against the French Nobility. The only problem occurred when I learned several hours later than no noble were still in town, just my father and his bodyguards, with some militia.

Aïe!!! It wasn't a very pleasant situation. Philippe Auguste was not in a really good mood too. I asked to help him but he said that I and my brother had better play toys than speaking of men fights. I was clearly upset because I knew that my "father" didn't know anything about Archimedes, and still considered me as a child. At the opposite, my brother, who was 15th, was very ease about that situation and preferred to play with his little wooden horses in his bedroom. He was fed up with fights, wars and stuff like that since I slaughtered him for the 523th time at playing "Sarasin" against "holy crusader".

After some days of siege, riots started to occur in Paris, and I preferred to stay in the castle. Some guards had been slaughtered by the population and it was better playing wooden horses, maybe.  
Philippe was thinking about going alone in order to kill all these devils but everybody advised him to stay safely at home. Maybe he played also wooden horses. With us three, we could have done a great battle, for sure.

However, after 2 snowy months of hopeless waiting, some spotter saw an army arriving from the south. It was a French army. More exactly the East border army led by Guillaume de Lyon, our greatest general, who was rescuing the royal family, and the Paris people just after. Time for the fight had arrived, and those fucking Dutch pikemen would be quite surprised . . .

Philippe Auguste, the chivalric King of our proud kingdom, decided to sally out the walls and start the fight. I was glazing at him when he put his beautiful shining armor, the best one all over the world, as were saying our troubadours. Then, he took his crown, jumped in his saddle, and seized Joyeuse out of his scabbard. Everyone was staring at him and he shouted:

\- " Montjoie Saint Denis, à l'attaque !!" "Ne faites pas de quartier mesamis...".

It was clear that the beautiful snow would be spoilt by rivers of blood before the sunset.

With his bodyguards, he rode in the front of his little army and put them in order of battle, facing the much more imposing Flanders's army.

I was looking at the battle since the city walls, and I clearly saw the dreadful cavalry charge of Philippe knights. Philippe hadn't waited for his reinforcements and decided to fight alone. Fool father! But what a beautiful moment to see all these proud knights running in front of death, in the white field!!!

Fortunately, Philippe was clever enough not to charge directly the pikemen, but some bowmen waiting for their death. It was done within a second and I remember the sound of the long chivalric lances crushing in bloody defenseless corpses. However, the Dutch pikemen were running to protect their friends and slain the chivalric king. Philippe was tricky and decided to run back, fleeing for a moment the heart of the battle and ordering his militia spearmen to enjoy the pikemen ability instead of him.

Just that moment, I heard a powerful horn behind the Flanders army. I succeeded to discern the war flags of Guillaume de Lyon. The laughing Edward was just trapped by the French intelligence...  
And it wasn't all. Guillaume de Lyon's army was almost essentially composed of peasants crossbowmen, and General Edward's army didn't counted any horseman. Their fate was already played.

I felt some grief, seeing those poor pikemen decimated by peasants. Where was the French nobility in that dump? I was expecting bravery, I was waiting for epic duels between champions... I was not there to see some peasants taking the entire honor by throwing arrows from some dirty bows and crossbows. The pikemen were defenseless against those firing cowards.

I thought that it was easier to do their bloody job than even to play wooden horses against my brother Michel.

Without an hour, the remnants of the fearful Edward's army were laying under the bloody snow. Fortunately, the bowmen decided to send fired-arrows and it was a beautiful spectacle to watch clouds of fire raining on the poor Edward's bodyguards.

Like a witch, he was burnt. Unlike a witch, it was done without pyre under him.

A new victory for the Kingdom!

I was proud about the chivalric charge of my father. I remember having heard him hours describing the fear in the faces of Dutch people he was slaughtering with Joyeuse. What a sword! She has never failed since Charlemagne, and she was promised a long fate . . .

I was literally dreaming. I was in a fictive word. Joyeuse in my fist. Crushing foes in the battle field. Fighting for conquest, glory and honor . . .

Snow disappeared one spring morning of March. It was the day where Michel, my friend and brother, was entering the life as a man, and was supposed to take responsibilities. Michel was a coward, all the opposite of his fearsome father and brother, but he was clever and knew how to lead men. During some of our talks, he explained me that the fate of a kingdom wasn't dealt with battles, but with the diplomacy and management of people.

\- "You could win a thousand epic battles without expanding your land and your people" he often said to me.

I wasn't very aware of his advices. I was just boiling, waiting for having my own battle steed, and war sword. Waiting for fighting under the rules of chivalry, waiting to protect the poor and the orphan from the cruel devils hiding in the darkness. Anyway, Michel decided to stay in Paris and continue learning in the Royal University, with the help of lawyers and experienced diplomats.

My father agreed with him. It wasn't a problem because he had already his elder son, the Dauphin Louis, who was a "real knight", as often said Philippe.

However, no news arrived from Spain. Where was Louis? What was he doing? Fearing some threats, Philippe decided to travel to the south of France in order to maintain his sovereign power and to search news from his hyperactive heir. I decided to go with him. I was fed up with the Parisian life, and Michel was busy with his work, and wasn't playing a lot with me, despite our strong friendship.

The travel took us 3 months. We were discovering and inspecting each citadels and huge towns under the power of Philippe's Crown. I was amazed about the diversified landscape. I had never seen mountains and we crossed some in the middle of France. It was beautiful... People loved Philippe and it was a pleasure to see their overjoyed face when they were gazing at us.

We finally reached the Citadel of Toulouse, and Philippe asked for some news of his heir. No-one knew what happened after the crusade of Cordoba. Philippe was angry and took the decision to go to Narbonne.

During the Toulouse's stay, I saw some young nobles training their war skills, and I felt that my fate was to stay there and learn at their contact how to be a chivalric knight, how to be the most chivalric knight ever! I asked my father Philippe if I could. I still think that he was annoyed about his disappeared heir and didn't want to deal with other problems. Therefore, he finally decided that I was old enough to decide by myself now and agreed to let me doing what I thought I had to.

Here I am, Philippe Capet, one of the sons of the Holy Kingdom of France. I had the sovereign name but I just was allowed to be the equal of the other French nobles. Nothing more.  
It was largely enough. I knew it.

I knew that this start would lead me to the stars.

In addition, Philippe Auguste, my beloved father, decided to trust me by offering me the Privy Seal. It was also a way to show that I was trustworthy. I knew perfectly that some dukes and counts were publically disapproving my rights.

Then it arrived. Two days before the expected departure of the king to Narbonne, we heard a noisy crowd in the citadel streets. I watched from my window and I saw what happened.  
Louis Sans Merci, my elder brother, was back from his crusade. He was 36 now, and has spent years in the Spanish countryside for nothing.

The family reunion might be "sparkling" . . .

Between my chivalrous father and the fearsome heir, between the worshiper king and the heretic dauphin, we can easily forecast some "firing arguments". And it happened. I heard some ferocious and angry curses between them. Philippe was angry not having any news and to be obliged to lose time seeking for his heir in the South of the Kingdom. Louis was furious having spent 3 years of his life in Spain for nothing, missing to be killed by some "Sarasin" skirmishes, by some Mediterranean pirates and even by some Castellans ambushes.

I just entered the room during that argument time, because I was alone in the castle, doing nothing, so I thought it could be nice to see what happened behind that noisy door. What a bad thought !

When I entered, Louis Sans Merci fixed me and shouted: "-What does that fucking bastard in the same room than me?" He started to take his massive sword out of his scabbard when Philippe stopped him violently.

\- "He is your adoptive brother, and I trust him like each of my child. Do not insult him anymore in my presence. Am I sufficiently clear Louis?" asked the King.

Louis was boiling but replied: "-What are we talking about? Let's discuss about important issues the Kingdom requires, better than that bullshit".

Philippe ordered me to get out, and I clearly saw Louis staring at me with a fearsome dirty look. My death was dancing in his dark eyes.

I fled outside the castle, pretty feared about these eyes, and also the strong deadly arm that belonged to Louis Sans Merci.

That day, I decided to take care about myself and most particularly to avoid as much as possible my "brother". However, I was determined to stay in Toulouse in order to become a warrior, a knight, a fearless French noble . . .

Coming Next:

The dices are thrown.

Philippe is ready to be a man, and surely much more than a common one. He has learnt the people to rely upon, and the other to avoid.

The south of France will be the starting point of his adventure. He won't be anymore the uninteresting royal boy he used to be.

Will he succeed to follow the chivalric code, and meet the fame and glory dreamt?

Between the aggressive castellans in the South and the hereditary English enemies in Aquitaine, there is a nice playground in order to enjoy the reality of war...

TAKEDA
Chapter One

Description

1545. This is the Sengoku Jidai, the age of the country at war. For two hundred years, the Ashikaga shoguns ruled from Kyoto, and great splendour and power were theirs, but now the shogunate grows weak, and the time has come for a new warlord to become shogun. Many clans rub their hands gleefully at the opportunity, but only one can prevail. The only possible outcome is total war!

Tracing their ancestry to the Minamoto shoguns of centuries past, the Takeda are famed for the horsemanship of its samurai. Their enemies are many, but Kai lands have served the clan well, and in Takeda Harunobu they have a patriarch destined for great things. Inspired by the acclaimed Total War: SHOGUN 2 by Creative Assembly, this is the story of the Takeda of Kai as the clan seeks to secure their place in history – a samurai's tale of honour, glory, betrayal and the ultimate sacrifice in the way of the warrior.

Chapter 1: First blood

We had come back from tending to the land. Kai was blossoming in the spring sunshine, and what we saw gave us much hope for the clan's future. The previous winter had been a harsh one, bringing the common peasantry much hardship, but as the snow melted away an encouraging sense of optimism filled the air. Father's last campaigns against the Hojo and Imagawa had drained the clan's treasury, and inattention to agriculture had depleted the clan's wealth, but those years were gone now. Since peace was signed between the clans our fortunes had seen a dramatic turnaround, and the people all around us worked the fields with a quiet confidence of the clan's future. Prospects were once again on the up. Even our cavalry, so famed throughout Japan, was beginning to regain its former strength.

These were dangerous times, but we had no reason to fear anyone, for we are the Takeda.

I, Takeda Nobushige, am the brother of our daimyo. Father had once intimated that I assume that position instead, but what is past is gone now. Over time Harunobu had grown into a mature statesman, proving himself to be a good daimyo and a caring brother to Nobukado and me. As for myself I became both Harunobu's first lieutenant and closest confidant, fighting at his side in battle. The fortunes of our clan were more important now, and serving it would be my greatest honour, in life or glorious death.

"Tono!! Our scouts have reported a Murakami force entering the north of Kai. They numbered many, and seemed to be headed to Kofu. We must do something!"

The lone messenger who interrupted the meeting of council elders practically threw himself into the courtyard, and now lay prostrate before us. The elder generals among the council reacted with angry stares to the offender, but said nothing as Harunobu beckoned the young ashigaru to speak. Such a dramatic entrance surely meant an urgent matter at hand, and sure enough a deathly hush befell the council as the words left his mouth. Murmurs of surprise eventually followed before the room devolved into a heated argument over the appropriate response, Harunobu demanded silence with the rise of his hand, and all of us fell quiet. Several among our ranks had long been eager to wage war against the treacherous Murakami, but now that this day had come, they watched their daimyo intently, eagerly awaiting his command. Looking around a heightened sense of anticipation was apparent all around, and Harunobu's proclamation was met with a feisty roar of approval.

"The day has come. We march at day break." . . .

. . . We found the Murakami camped upon a hill. Our scouts had done well, and we were pleased to see that we had an advantage in numbers. Sensing our superiority, Harunobu addressed the troops, reminding them of the duty they were bound by and the reason they were stood here – to protect Kai and its people, to honour the Takeda name, and to wipe these treacherous swine from our land. Harunobu had positioned the cavalry wide right, and it was these brave men who led the assault on the hill. It would be a steep climb, but trained in the hilly environment of Kai our horsemen were accustomed to such terrain and made good progress. Just as the enemy yari turned to engage however, they reversed their trajectory. Encouraged by the unexpected development the enemy infantry sped after the horsemen, charging from the hill in one dark mass. Delighted that the agreed ruse had worked perfectly, the generals watched with glee and anticipation in equal measure as the best Takeda samurai – waiting at the foot of the hill – tore into the hapless enemy. Butchery would not have been a strong word for what ensued.

Harunobu ordered his men to dismount and I followed suit. Horses were a precious commodity, and being on mounted would offer us no advantage over the enemy's yari. I ordered my men to join our brave brothers, and charged headlong into the fray with my personal guard at my side. Immediately surrounded by a muddle of enemy soldiers, I sliced through two of the white-clad vermin before being forced to parry countering blows from another. An arrow whistled past my ear as I sent my trusted katana into the offendin gashigaru, but before I had time to ponder my good fortune I found myself faced with three more men. As I prepared to strike however, each of the enemy soldiers suddenly collapsed where they stood, blood gushing from where cold metal had pierced their armour. Standing over them were men amongst my personal guard, whom I thanked hurriedly before launching myself at yet more of those in white.

Everywhere I looked our men fought valiantly, and brave men were cut down on both sides. Bodies had begun to gather in small piles on the grassy slopes, and the blood which ran in rivers made the terrain difficult to manoeuvre. Still both sides struggled on, hoping for a moment that would cause a decisive breakthrough. Thankfully such a moment arrived shortly after as the Takeda cavalry – circling to the rear of the infantry while the melee swayed this way and that – tore into the enemy ranks. The stunned Murakami had committed all their forces to the melee, and could only watch as the mounted warriors stampeded through their formation, carving a bloody swath as they went. Before long what left of their resolve dissolved into the fog, and the surviving Murakami soldiers turned to escape. Pressing the advantage Harunobu and I duly remounted and rode in pursuit, hacking and slashing at will while traversing the columns of fleeing men at will. By the time the chase was called off broken Murakami banners littered the battlefield, their army utterly vanquished.

The Murakami would regret the day they set foot in Kai. This was just the beginning.

Barely had we made camp had the scouts' messenger birds arrived. The news was not good. A second Murakami force was merely four days march from us. That gave us enough time to gather supplies and regroup, but not enough to bring reinforcements from Kai. We would have to depend on what we had, and despite victory today, a defeat would surely be a crippling blow to our ambitions. The four days were spent burying the dead, watering the horses and allowing the men to recuperate. Word had come from the scouts that this second force was less formidable than the last, which was a tonic to the many wounded and weary among our ranks, but at three hundred this second Murakami force would prove a stern test to our own depleted ranks. The day prior word filtered through the ranks that the enemy army was led by Murakami Yoshikiyo, their daimyo, and the revelation created considerable excitement among the council. Harunobu and father before him had long considered Shinano key to our ambitions, and now, it seemed, we were closer than ever to our goal, if only we could cut down this man.

It was time for brave hearts and a strong spirit. Our forefathers would expect nothing less.

On the fourth day, the generals roused the troops from their sleep as dawn broke, and we formed up on a wooded hill – any advantage from the terrain would have to make up for our lack of numbers. A suffocating fog had broken out in the valleys and as we stood in silence visibility could not have been more than a few hundred paces. The fog would hide us from the enemy but equally hinder the effectiveness our bowmen. Harunobu ordered the cavalry to a hill on the right, hidden from the enemy, and barricades to be put up in front of our archers. Any enemy infantry targeting them would be confronted with the pointy end of our spears. As the Murakami approached, the silence was broken by the sound of bowstrings, and the cries of stricken enemy men. The Murakami charged in one mass of men and metal, crashing with a sickening thud into a waiting spear wall. Meanwhile our cavalry emerged from the woods, thundering into the enemy daimyo's retinue. The attack had caught the dog by surprise, and our horsemen were upon him before his guards could react, cutting him from his horse with precision and lethality worthy of much pride. We lost several of our best horsemen in this attack, but I suspect the death of the Murakami daimyo had spared the lives of many more of our men as our enemy fled. The road to Matsumoto was now clear, and generations of harassment from the Murakami would soon be at an end . . .

. . . The siege of Matsumoto was not exceptionally hard work. The Murakami were depleted after the pair of losses against us, and we found Matsumoto garrisoned by a pitiful company of the old and injured – men clearly deemed unfit to make the march on Kai. I almost felt a twinge of sympathy for the boy they'd dressed up to be the new daimyo. It seemed cruel that one so young would be subjected to such a fate. Nonetheless he was sent away to Kai by our trusted retainers to be dealt with in the appropriate way. To spare him would have given our enemies a banner to rally around. Splinters of the Ogasawara and Murakami clans had escaped our grasp, and we could ill afford further strength for our enemy.

It had been almost two months since the Murakami castle had fallen, but the clan was put through its paces subjugating the various acts of insurrection that had greeted our arrival. Each event was of little military importance, but the removal of such threats was significant nonetheless. The council had agreed that Shinano would be the new economic centre of the clan, and a peaceful and loyal populace would be all the more important for that. In order to advance the wealth of our new domain, various new policies were put in place, varying from rice subsidies to tax exemptions to those whose family members enlisted in the Takeda ranks. A series of agricultural reforms based upon improved irrigation and terraces carved into hilly terrain were also put into place. Farming output in northern Shinano could be doubled should all these measures bear the intended fruit, and construction work was commenced with great eagerness from all involved.

Occupying north Shinano had opened our borders to several new clans, and new opportunities and dangers that came with them. A decision would have to be made on which direction the clan would go next soon, and so it was that two months after our arrival the council would meet at Matsumoto for the first time. As the last of the council elders took their seats, debate promptly began.

"We should turn our attention to the Kiso. They are weak and south Shinano is a source of quality stone, which would make our fortifications all the more impregnable."

"We've been on friendly terms with the Kiso since the days of our forefathers. We can obtain their stone through trade for now, and to tread so soon in the direction of the shogun surely would be a bad idea."

"Pah, the shogun is no match for us. The Imagawa are allied to us and have a strong position in Owari. A coordinated push towards Kyoto would surely be profitable for both clans."

"You speak words of a fool. The shogun may be weak but still not to be trifled with, with us still recovering from the campaign against the Murakami. In due time we will challenge the Ashikaga puppet, but we should be careful not to attract the ire of the shogun."

"Have you no ambition? The clan must continue to expand in order to prosper. The Anegakoji of Hida have sided with the Murakami since our fathers' time and would be a perfect target . . ."

The debate grew in ferocity gradually until Harunobu was forced to intervene. The council fell quiet in respect for him and allowed him to clear his throat.

"What of the Nagao? Kagetora recently dispatched of his brother and has assumed leadership of that clan. I hear he is an honourable character, and would make a better ally than that old corpse Yoshimoto. If only the Murakami had not escaped and sought his protection."

The debate lasted long into the night. The direction the clan took next would surely have a monumental effect on our fortunes, and so a decision was taken only after much deliberation. Ultimately the deciding factor had been trade. Envoys were sent to all of the surrounding clans with encouraging results, with the exception of the Anegakoji who had spurned our advances. It was decided therefore that Hida would be the site of our next battle.

May Hachiman be with us . . .

. . . A year of rest and recuperation followed our victory at Matsumoto. Once the rash of unrest had passed the men dispersed into the fields to work their newly apportioned land, and a state of temporary calm spread through our domain. There was work to be done, but thankfully there were plenty of men to do it. A policy of tolerance and integration of the people of Shinano, or what we controlled of it, gradually began to bear fruit, and the number of men we were able to muster to complete major projects – or for battle should the time come – increased dramatically. The people of Shinano slowly learned to accept our victories over the Murakami, and many men from all walks of life had joined our cause, each eager for a new beginning. In time, these men would prove to be useful soldiers, and be the bedrock of our expansion in the years to come, but for now, patience was a virtue all of us needed more of as we instructed them time and again which end of the yari was the useful one.

As we marched on Hida province after the harvest, news arrived that the Anegakoji were engaged in a bitter struggle against the Jinbo clan of Etchu. Their conflicts had been fought to a standstill that had cost both clans their best men, and our march on Takayama would be easier for it. The Anegakoji were allied in name to the Kiso clan of southern Shinano, but the latter had been our brothers since the days we bore the name Minamoto, and were eager to side with our cause. The cache of gold and display of strong horsemen who had arrived with our messenger undoubtedly helped smooth negotiations. There was a day when these Kiso men were equals of our Seiwa Genji ancestors. That day was long gone, however, and the Kiso of today were a peaceful people, be it by choice or for lack of alternatives. We will unite Shinano under one banner one day, but on this one their support was well thanked.

We arrived at Takayama castle under a light rain just as the sun was setting. The castle was built in the shape of a cross, with high walls extending in four directions. It was a formidable structure, and had it been adequately garrisoned we surely would have suffered grave losses. As it was our informants had reported that the Anegakoji daimyo's personal guard was the only defenders, and so it had proved. The enemy sallied, and our men met them at the foot of the castle walls. The battle was over quickly as our numerical superiority told, and our losses were mercifully few.

The response to our arrival among the people was entirely differently from the one in Shinano. Instead of the stench of weary hatred, these people had welcomed us, which took us somewhat by surprise. Our generals had come expecting a fight and were ready for one, but instead were treated gracefully and with much kindness. Perhaps they had heard of what happened to the rebels in Matsumoto, or could it be that they preferred our Takeda name to the one of serial failure and military mediocrity associated with their old masters? As the cavalry marched through the streets below Takayama castle, I could not help notice Harunobu allowing himself a wicked smile. Father had waged war in Shinano for years, and was successful for the most part, but now he had exceeded that. A change had come over his demeanour as we entered Takayama – the brother I had watched grow up had gained a newfound sense of authority. He had proven the doubters among the older generals wrong, and he had led his clan to victory. Sterner tests would come than the Anegakoji, but when that day came I was confident Harunobu would lead the clan to glory.

Coming soon

The rise of the Takeda has not gone unnoticed, and as the clan secures its hold on Shinano and Hida a new threat looms on the horizon . . .

HEAVEN'S DECENT, CYPRUS REBORN

Writer's Introduction: Heaven's Descent, Cyprus Reborn is a period piece set at the turn of the 15th century that follows the lives of an unlikely group of people brought together by unlikely circumstances and sheer happenstance. Though they may have lived 'ordinary lives' prior to their coming together, what follows from their unlikely union is an extraordinary journey that takes them to the ends of the world and back in the midst of an ever expanding web of conspiracy.

I chose to write this story to showcase how 'ordinary' characters can develop in the face of extraordinary circumstances. In doing so, I hope to convey the harsh reality that comes along with such extraordinary circumstances, and the realistic human emotions one would expect to have when faced with such circumstances. I chose to write about Cypriot crusaders because, forgotten as they were by the majority of the world, they had the perfect story to tell. Though I don't seek to recreate the hero's journey here, I nevertheless look to shed light on a story worth telling and a setting worth revealing. I hope you all find this story as enjoyable as it was to write it!

Chapter I: Cyprus Reborn

Within the stuffy confines of an old abbey that overlooked the Mediterranean from the cliffs of Cilica, laid a map of Europe draped over a large table. Despite its dusty surroundings, the map a recent addition to the abbey, meant to provide the people of the nearby village of Korikos a rough image of what the known world looked like. One look at the lines on the map revealed to the learned eye a panoply of important current events that one would be wise to take note of.

In the west, England and France continued their war while the Iberian states continued to vie for regional dominance in their war against the Moors. Meanwhile, the Pope continued to feud with the Holy Roman Emperor over control of Northern Italy. These internal conflicts allowed for the persistence of neglect towards the East, which had been all but abandoned by Christendom at this point. The Eastern Roman Empire continued to decline and wilt under the pressure of rising Islamic powers in the region. Their losses came to benefit the Italian merchant states of Genoa and Venice, who for decades now had exploited the instability of the Aegean to accrue exorbitant amounts of profit like the greedy leeches they were. All the while, warlords like the dreaded Tamerlane scoured the lands of Asia Minor, eager to conquer new Christian lands.

The year was 1400 AD, and the world on the map looked very much as the one a century before. Yet, the world had undergone great change in the last few decades. The world had endured a scourge like no other in the Black Death, which had claimed one in every three men throughout Europe. The world that emerged from the Black Death was one far different from the one going into it. From the ashes of death emerged a new wave of ideas that harkened back to the classical age of Greece and Rome. This 'Renaissance' of sorts sought to usher in a new age; free of the toil and misery people had been forced to endure for centuries.

A robed man entered the abbey and made his way to ponder over the map. Philip the Peaceful, as he was known by his peers, was a respected bishop of the Catholic Church and one of the few remaining significant Catholic officials still operating east of Constantinople. His moniker indicated him as a pacifist who urged for peace with the rising tide of Islam in the region. It was the most Christianity could hope for at the moment, lest its presence in the East be completely consumed. With the shortage of clergymen in the region, Philip worked from the Cilician abbey to help spread the word of God and promote peace among the surrounding territories all by his lonesome. Philip did not mind the isolation, for he quite enjoyed his life of solitude and prayer. Alas, those days were coming to an end. Bound by his allegiances, he would soon have to give up his peaceful life to serve his lords in whatever capacity they asked of him. This was not something Philip looked forward to, considering the realm he served was that of the Kingdom of Cyprus, a small crusader state that had seen better days.

Philip cringed every time he reflected on his Kingdom's state of affairs. Ever since the fall of Acre in 1291, the Kings of Cyprus have fashioned themselves as the titular Kings of Jerusalem, vowing to one day return to the Holy Land and once more restore the Kingdom of Heaven to its former glory. But year after year, continual setbacks prevented these Kings from fulfilling their vows. A lack of resources, manpower, support and general interest were the biggest culprits, and there was little that Cyprus could do all on its lonesome to counter such setbacks.

Thus, for years the Kingdom had languished, falling into obscurity while the world passed it by. All but forgotten, Philip's lords in the Royal Lusignan Family have managed to continue on as the rulers of Cyprus, albeit just barely. Between the Muslim raiders and greedy Italian merchants that harassed the coast of their namesake island, the Royal Family had their hands full.

Philip moved away from the map and went over to the nearby desk, opening up one of the many manuscripts lying about. The one he opened up was his most recent work, which detailed the history of the current Royal Family, and his allegiances to them. Philip was the Royal Bishop to King Jaques of Cyprus. As Bishop, it was Philip's job to tutor the King's two children. Since his crowning in 1398, Jaques had shown himself to be a capable leader, albeit one lacking in authority. Janus, as his family called him, did not yet possess the experience or leadership qualities his father James I once held. That said, Philip knew that Jaques would need to acquire such qualities soon if he hoped to one day possess the authority his father once commanded.

Thankfully, the King was not alone in facing such a daunting task. His son, Prince John de Lusignan, also looked to one day gain the experience and skills necessary to one day rule as King. John was a fast learner, and had responsibility thrust upon him from a very young age.. Upon becoming Prince of Cyprus, he had been given command of the Royal Army, which consisted of little more than a couple hundred of levied men armoured in chainmail and augmented by some local mercenaries. This meagre force of men was all that defended the high walls of Nicosia, the seat of their ever-dwindling Kingdom.

Philip held out hope that with God's blessing, Jaques and his son John would one day become great Kings of Cyprus, able to provide the ailing Kingdom with some much needed prosperity. But the future looked grim for Cyprus. All around them, their enemies' armies swelled in the tens of thousands, eager to expand their vast empires. Cyprus stood as one of the last bastions of Christendom in the Eastern Mediterranean, and so its fall would be a monumental victory for the powers of Islam. If Nicosia fell, so too would the Kingdom of Cyprus. Christianity could not afford such a loss, even if most of Christendom didn't care to know it yet. Without support from the West, Jaques and John would need to find a way to push back against the tide of Islam and make some headway into lost territory if they hoped to keep hungry looks away from Nicosia. With only several hundred men and an empty treasury providing no means for development, this would prove to be a daunting task.

Yet Philip remained hopeful in the face of such great adversity. He hoped against hope that Jaques and John were ready for the trials that awaited them. They knew they had to act now, before rising debts had the chance to deny them the means to travel to the mainland. They had a daring plan in mind, one whose success would determine the future of the Kingdom. It involved a risky assault on the city of Sis, the fallen capital of the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia, a Kingdom which had been destroyed in 1375 by the Mamluks. If Jaques and John were able to annex Sis, they would gain the much needed extra revenue necessary to maintain the basic functions of the Kingdom running.

However, as daring of plan as it was, it was still only a short-term solution. Cyprus would need allies in this last ditch effort to preserve Christianity in the Eastern Mediterranean. This is where Philip fit into the King's plans. Philip's duty to the Kingdom was to accompany Jaques' only daughter, Princess Marie de Lusignan, on a diplomatic journey that would take them all across the Aegean and Black Sea in search of allies and support from their neighbours. The journey would span hundreds of miles across treacherous terrain, so it too was an arduous task to take on. But Philip did not waver. This was but another of God's tests, one he looked to pass with flying colours. Together with the young Marie, they would play their part and see about a brighter future for both Cyprus and Christianity in general.

If only he knew then what was in store for them.

\------Three Months Later------

"This is pointless!"

"It is not, Marie. God always has a way, and he will light the path for us."

Philip's words had little effect on the fuming princess. The two had just left the small town of Malatya, where they had met with Timurid representatives in hopes of establishing favourable trade relations with them. Their efforts had been in vain, as the Timurids were quick to dismiss their sound arguments for peace and mutual profit. To them, Marie and Philip were insignificant heathens begging to be spared from their inevitable deaths. It was a notion shared by the Mamluks, who had also turned down their appeal for peace at Antioch just a month ago.

"There is no reasoning with them, Philip! They know we are weak. They have no need for us. Why trade with us when they know they can easily crush us?" Philip could tell that the princess was exasperated, and he could not blame her. He too was frustrated with the situation. Nevertheless, he was her mentor, and as such he had to find the positive out of even the grimmest of circumstances.

"Even so, we must press on. At the very least, we return knowing we have done enough for the Council to provide us with that loan your father needs."

Marie sighed. Philip had a point; the trip wasn't a complete waste. Still, it did not take away from her frustrations. She was unaccustomed to this new life of travel. She had spent her childhood within the walls of Nicosia. While it was no lavish palace, it was a comfortable enough life for Marie, who lived the life of a sheltered princess. So to be ordered by her father to travel the dusty roads of Anatolia in search of trade rights and loans from foreign powers was something she simply hadn't been prepared for.

The past three months had been the most physically challenging time she had to endure throughout her entire life to date, and she often made that fact known to her companion Philip with her incessant complaining. Yet she felt justified in those complaints. She was a princess after all: what business did she have in some backwater village in Cappadocia like Malatya? Of course, she already knew the answer to her own question.

The grim reality of the situation was that she was a princess whose title was at stake. If she did not do this, she may not have a Nicosia to return to, or a King to call father. So she begrudgingly pressed on to fulfil her father's wishes. At least she had Philip at her side. Her mentor harkened the mission as an adventure of sorts in order to help raise her spirits, albeit she did admit it also got on her nerves after some time.

The two travelled with a small escort of soldiers along the dirt road numbering no more than a half dozen. Though their presence helped, Marie always felt vulnerable at night. The roads were dangerous and prone to attack by bandits and vandals. Were they to attack them, there would be little that six men could do to stop them from having their way. But her father could not afford to spare any more men for her diplomatic escort. She would have to make do with them on the long trip back to their destination, and hope that everything went well, especially since their destination was still several days away.

Thankfully the trip was an uneventful one, and Philip and Marie were able to safely reach the war camp where they had initially set out from. There, King Jaques and Prince John continued to orchestrate the siege efforts on the city of Sis. While Marie immediately set off for her quarters, eager for some proper rest, Philip headed towards the Royal Tent, where the King consulted with his captains poring over the final details of the siege.

As Philip listened in on the details, he couldn't help but thank God for the great fortune he had bestowed upon them to even be able to lay siege to Sis. Jaques and John had set out from Nicosia with just over two hundred men on borrowed ships. When they reached the coastal settlement of Korikos, where Philip's abbey was located, they learned of the dire news that the Ottomans were making their own move against the city of Sis, believing it to be a worthy addition to their burgeoning empire.

All seemed lost upon hearing such dreadful news, but then God lit the way for a miraculous turn of events. In what could only be considered as divine intervention, the Ottomans were driven back by the defenders of Sis. Apparently, having heard that Jaques and his men were marching on the city, the defenders of Sis had fought off the Ottomans with renewed vigour, expecting a massive crusader army to help relieve the city of the enemy siege. In this way, the Ottomans were repelled and the people of Sis erupted in grand jubilation. Of course, they were more than disappointed when they only saw several hundred crusaders make camp outside the walls of their city, preparing their own siege efforts.

This would lead to severe internal strife within the city, as the Armenians were now split over how to react to the crusaders camped outside of their city. Some believed that Cypriot rule was preferable to Ottoman conquest, and in this way King Jaques was able to gain another couple hundred of men to augment his forces. However, there still remained a strong group of about a thousand men within the city that openly desired to maintain their autonomy. Thankfully, this group of men was still considered a minority among the rest of the populace, which seemed open to the thought welcoming Jaques and his knights as their new rulers. Thus, all Jaques and his men needed to do were to overcome this rebel force, and then the city would be theirs. All in all, the odds were much more favourable than expected.

"Ah Philip it is good to see you, my friend. How was my daughter treated by the Timurids?" The King seemed more optimistic than usual. Perhaps he too could see how God had gifted them with this opportunity.

"Well enough, Your Majesty. She is getting some much needed rest. As expected, the Timurids have rejected our offers for establishing trade rights. But at the very least, the Council at Nicosia will be happy with our initiative here."

"Indeed they will. The Council will support our cause as long as they see that we are making progress. God willing, the Council will continue to finance us should we be able to establish our foothold on the mainland here in Sis."

"Do you need me to return to Nicosia and speak with the Council on your behalf, my King?" Philip queried, but he could tell that would not be necessary.

"Once our affairs here are settled, I will personally return to Nicosia to beseech their aid. I believe it must be I who speaks to them, so that I can earn their loyalty and respect. John will rule on my behalf here in the meantime. However, I am once more in need of your help, old friend."

"Anything, my lord." Philip could note the hesitance in Jaques' voice, which indicated that what he was planning to ask was no small matter.

"My daughter Marie...I treasure her. She is dear to me, and I hate to put her in harm's way..." the King drifted off, and Philip knew where this was going.

"...Yet I must once more send her in search of allies. Without aid, we will not be able to maintain our hold on Sis. I need you to escort her to meet with the Kingdom of Georgia. Though they too are in a precarious situation, an alliance with them would prove to be invaluable."

King Jaques had a point. The Kingdom of Georgia was the only other Christian Kingdom east of Constantinople. For years, the Georgians had endured the brunt of Tamerlane's invasions into their ancestral lands. Yet an alliance with these Orthodox Christians would show Christian solidarity in the face of adversity, and it would also appease the Armenian people of Sis, who no doubt would soon enough look for a legitimate reason to allow Cyprus to remain within the city.

"I would have someone else go in her place, but our only diplomat has yet to return from Italy. This alliance with Georgia is critical. I would not send her across the Caucasus if I could not help it, and I know she will not take the news well. Please, take care of her."

At that moment, another man entered the tent. Prince John may have been young and inexperienced, but he certainly didn't look it with the presence and regalia he wore.

"Father, the ladders are finished and all the last preparations are set. Everything is ready for tomorrow's assault."

"That's good to hear, John. Go tell your sister the news. She won't be happy, but I know you have a better way with her than I do. In a week's time, Philip will accompany her through the Caucasus with a small armed escort." Jaques turned his gaze toward the bishop once more, with a deep penetrating gaze. "I trust him with her life, and I know neither of them will fail their King."

Philip gulped and nodded with a reassuring glance toward his King. Jaques may have been his friend, but he was still the King of Cyprus, and a King's stare was always unnerving, especially when one was tasked with protecting said King's daughter. Jaques may have not yet earned the respect of his subjects, but that was because they had yet to bear witness to the command presence he held. Philip had bore witness to the King's tenacity in battle once before, during a Mamluk raid on the Nicosia's port. But it paled in comparison to what he would see the next day, when the King led his small army to attack the walls of Sis.

The battle was unexpectedly easy. King Jaques' men were able to secure the city walls with ease, and open the city gates for the King and his retinue of cavalry. Together, Jaques and his son John stormed through the streets of Sis, using the force of their steeds to power through the light resistance they faced from those who dissented against their authority. To Philip, a declared pacifist unaccustomed to the brutality of battle, the King of Cyprus was a dominant and imposing figure who barged through the peasant rabble that had stood up against him.

Sure enough, the Lord was with them that day, as the populace soon turned on the rebel defenders and openly welcomed King Jaques and his crusader knights. Those still opposed against the Catholic troops were quickly run out of the city, which capitulated to Cypriot control by sunset.

Of course, the success at Sis was just the beginning of things to come. While for the moment it seemed as if the Kingdom of Cyprus had won itself some breathing space, it would not be long before the Ottomans, Mamluks and Timurids came around to take what Jaques and his men had fought so hard to win.

The real journey would begin now for Philip, who in just a few days would embark upon a journey with the Princess Marie de Lusignan to the Kingdom of Georgia. It would be a journey neither of them would soon forget.

UP NEXT: How will Philip and Marie fare in their journey to speak with the King of Georgia? With the Muslims breathing down the necks of their recently established foothold in Anatolia, will their journey through the hills of Cappadocia ultimately be a safe one? What other dangers lurk in the shadows ahead? Find out next time on DRAGONBALL Z (Heaven's Descent, Cyprus Reborn)!

SERVING YOUR OPPRESSOR
Introduction

The classical world has interested me since I was a young man, watching films such as the 300 Spartans (not to be mistaken for Frank Miller's 300) and programs like I, Claudius. History, in general, has been a constant passion in my life, even going so far as to ship off to university and complete a joint degree between both ancient and medieval history. During my time in the middle of the Welsh countryside, I had little to do but play long hours of Rome: Total War and enjoy copious amounts of drink, one being less detrimental to your health than the other, I'm told.

I had written After-Action Reports before, going the way of most and attempting to use pictures to supplement my writing, though after a while and a few terrible screen-shots later, I realised that I should stick to prose and simply add pictures in when and where I thought they would be needed.

This particular AAR is my one of my favourites, out of a number of them, because it was the first in which I decided to write from the view of an outsider to Rome and its mighty empire. In my opinion, the auxilia of the Roman military are a much maligned element of the Roman war machine, providing those specialists in areas which the legionnaires lacked the necessary skills, such as a sturdy cavalry force.

How did they feel, taken from their homes by leaders who were not their own and into foreign lands equally unknown to them? What were the attractions of Rome and her empire, with its trappings of civilisation and progression for all and anyone?

As an ongoing tale, I hope this prose-based AAR shall give its readers a taste of my writing and, hopefully, change views of the Romans from Italians in armour who marched across the face of the earth, to a multi-cultural melting pot or comrades and enemies.

Welcome, to the Roman auxilia.

Chapter 1: Blood For Coin

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 harbour 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 lower 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.

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.

The journey to our eventual destination took us nearly another year and we arrived in previously Gaulish territory by the Roman year of five-hundred-and-fifty-nine 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.

Chapter 2: Camp Life

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 five-hundred-and-sixty 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 five-hundred-and-sixty Ab Urbe Condita, legions began to be levied in Italia, Achaea, Hispania, Macedonia, Africa, Aegyptus, Rhodos and many places beside. Silver 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, or what the Romans knew 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.

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.

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, interpreter," 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 five-hundred-and-sixty 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 man's 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 thousand fold 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.

RESTORING ROME
Introduction

Hi, I go by the alias Schrödinger and this is my cat. Many years ago (about three or four) I was involved in setting up the first proper forum for AARtists and AARs at twcenter. At the time it seemed a major achievement even to have our own sub-for a. Now, we are looking at a much wider audience for a vibrant genre of writing and it fills me with pride, which I can say in full fear of being corny, for the community.

This AAR is not my first, but it is my first dipping of the toe into the genre for two years or so, having indulged in more normal short fiction in that period. I am using Medieval II: Total War on the popular modification Stainless Steel (v6.3) and will be playing as the Byzantine Empire, starting in 1100 AD, 19 years into the reign of the famous Alexios Komnenos. Understanding the mechanics of the game is not necessary at all, for I shall be indulging in character beyond all else.

Be transported, then, to the great city of Constantinople, crossroads of the world, bridge between East and West, even ravaged as the edges of the empire are chewed away by barbaric Normans and Turks. Does a second, irreversible Decline beckon, or can the Komnenos steer this New Rome forwards?

I.  
Constantinople, 1100 AD

Ioannis

Ioannis Komnenos stood in the yard, loosing arrows at a target fifty yards away. Next to him, alternating shots, was Yaroslav Wladimirovic, a Rus ward of the Komenoi. The young Kievan was winning easily, his long blond hair blowing across his calm ice eyes as his arrows homed in on the target, while an ever more flustered Ioannis sweated like a pig despite the breeze. Laconically leaning against the wall was a herb-chewing grizzled old man, with weather-beaten wrinkles, roughly cropped hair and stubble and a dirty cloak. His cap brim was pulled deep over his face, obscuring a glint from underneath it.

"Set to Yaroslav. Again."

"Next game my call, swordplay."

The willowy northerner shrugged and threw off his bracers, slinging his bow over his shoulder and turning out of the courtyard ahead of a broody princeling, steadfastly ignoring the dark old man, even as he gobbed on the cobbles in front of him. Not even sniffing, he quit, leaving Ioannis alone with the old man. Scowling, the first wisps of a beard dripping with condensed sweat, the young man made to copy his Rus friend, but this time the man spoke.

"Ioannis, your father would have us talk. Come with me." The voice growled like a lion and beneath the floor-vibrating rumble there was the faintest hint of a Turk accent.

Unquestioningly and silently, the order was obeyed. The path trodden by the surly foreigner was traced, wending through courtyards into the armoury. A page was helping Yaroslav into light chain mail.

"Leave."

Again silently, the Kievan noble obeyed, eyes to the floor, his jaw a hard line the only betrayal of emotion. The old man pull up a chest and sat on it, gesturing with a gloved hand for his example to be followed. As it, of course way.

"Ioannis. Your father has sent me to talk to you. Can you guess why? Good. You are young now and have the softness of the brain man has until he develops with age. At the moment your skull is flimsy, like an eggshell and your brain itself is like yolk. All yellow and gluey. I am a Muslim and you know our peoples have the best doctors. Our doctors know this. Ioannis, royal blood or not, there are things you must be told. These are some of them. You are listening? Good.

First, your father is at war. Not with Turks any longer, we have worked our boundaries as you know and for now both sides must bide their time. But in the north are still Bulgars, Serbs, Croats, upstart lordlings who dispute the Imperator Romanum. We must fight them. And Magyars across the Danube too. On the Italian peninsular Normans, Venetians, Milanese and Genovans. And our friend the Pope.

Except none of these people are friends. They are enemies, and enemies cost money. Who has money? Merchants. Merchants have money, but they do not have titles, land, a claim to anything much. Lords have these things and want money. So, a trade.

Some things are necessary for the realm and if you do not accede to your father's will I shall beat you black and blue with the flat with my sword with the Emperor's blessing. That is your lesson for today."

And the Turk left, his hat slipping slightly as he stood, to reveal a golden nose, burning dark eyes and thick caterpillar brows. Ioannis sat there with the discomforting feeling that the nose had stared at him, daring him to comment, before its owner swept with it out of the room.

II.

Constantinople, 1100 AD

Dimitra

Dimitra Balgiarotes smiled a sunlit grin as she saw her fiancé walk into the room with a brooding manner about his imperial visage. Flanked by two Varangians, he was followed in by his father's aide and, surprisingly, a man in a hooded cloak, his dark face shaded aside from a hint of light in the depths. Her father's sweaty palm clutched at hers and she shifted her head to the angle her mother said was most attractive. She resisted the urge to adjust all her clothing and settled from tossing her hair back and standing for the prince. Sighing, he nodded and sat.

"We are to be wed." his tone was bored, somewhat disinterested as he didn't even look at her, his betrothed, preferring to examine instead his imperial fingernails. Dimitra maintained her pose, waiting for permission to speak. Rolling his exquisite eyes, her-husband-to-be said "Speak."

"Yes, we are to be wed, my lord." She tossed her hair a bit more and smiled her smile. Her mother said her smile was like a sunrise. Ioannis Komnenos did not seem to like the sunrise, scowling and glaring at the hooded man in the corner. Ignoring her, he commanded the aide, Kaiphalas, to talk with her father in the audience chamber, leaving them alone but for the hooded man and his Varangians.

"You are pleasing to behold." A genuine smile now, she wiggled in her seat, her olive eyes widening and her thick dark hair falling like a waterfall. Her future sighed "Speak."

"Thank you, my Lord." Another pause, but Dimitra did not care, she had never been in the company of imperial blood before. Sixteen months her senior, he was well built and had his father's look, as she had seen from mosaic and tapestry. He had a brooding air which seemed to tauten when he looked at her. She loved everything about him, she decided. Before her betrothal, her mother had always said she could end up with another merchant child, a Phillipus, a Szekeres, maybe one of the many Venetians who had villas on the Marmara nowadays. She had not expected, except her wildest of dreams, to be destined to be an Empress. Empress Dimitra. Her children would be Emperors...

"Do you have nothing to say? I look forward to meeting you again on our wedding day then. Good day." as quick as that, Ioannis Komnenos left the room, his doublet swishes as he left. The Varangians swept out behind him, but the hooded man lingered a moment, pulling down his hood. What she saw shocked her, a golden nose, a tapestry of scars and an insolent grin.

"Be sure to please our Ioannis, he doesn't think with his head quite yet." and he left too with a leggy stride. As she sat, her demure smile fading slowly in her solitariness, she heard conversation leaving the villa.

"She is so quiet? Is she a fool? A cripple of the head? She is not an ogre to behold, but she seems like she has rocks for brains!"

"Young brains are soft, and her father is the second richest man in the Empire..."

III.

Thessaloniki, 1101 AD

Iakovos

Reining his horse in, Iakovos Phillipus, master of Thessaloniki, gazed across the valley which was his own, his dry thin lips etching a smile like a scar across his auburn bearded face. Sniffing the easterly wind, he smelt the air of the betrayer Savvas and his usurper castles Arta and Dyrrachium. His smile imperceptibly became a grimace of displeasure and he dismounted, patting the side of his mare as he gracefully swooped onto his knees, into the grass of his homeland. It yielded to his weight pleasurably as his leather breeches sank with him into the dew-heavy ground. Sweet grass and the scent of his horse mingled as he breathed greedily through his nose, ignoring his guardsmen for they knew his habit. Behind him lay the stinking city of Thessaloniki, his wife and children. And behind them was the Co-Emperor Ioannis, his young wife, and a few thousand soldiers straight from the Bosphorus and Dardanelles. They did not love this land, they were not Macedonians, he stroked the Macedonian sun which was his brooch and his sigil. Metal sandals would crush the grass of his homeland. And yet... the stench of Savvas' rebellion was thick in the air and the Komnenoi had shown themselves well able to fight, as they had already shown at Dyrrachium.

"My Lord, a rider approaches."

Levering his wiry frame up and mounting, Iakovos pulled the rictus he called a smile, "Ah, news of our young co-emperor...' his accent drawled and rolled, not dissimilar to a modern-day Texan, a modulated sneer of a voice 'Let us ride to meet this news so as to act upon it." He dug his heels into the mare, leading his men towards the grey-cloaked courier on a foam-flecked courser, urging it up the hill at a laboured trot.

They met halfway down the hill, under a beech tree, "You have ridden hard... what is... of such urgency?" drawled Phillipus.

"Ioannis will be with you by sunset tomorrow, with two thousand men, prepare for them. My lord, there are bandits in your woodlands, I was accosted and had to slay two to escape."

"They are not endemic... and those strong enough to... survive will survive... as you did... and Ioannis will... thank you... ride back now... back to Ioannis and tell... him we are ready...'

Two days later, a seventeen year old co-Emperor sat at a great table, flanked by the hooded man, a blonde-haired fresh-faced Kievan and a wrinkled onion of a man. Across him were the Phillipus men; Iakovos and his brother Michael, their bishop Kristophoros and man-at-arms Mark Zigopoulos. Between them lay a pitcher of fine Greek wine and a bowl of sharpest grapes. Only Ioakovos was eating, juice dribbling through his fiery beard as the discussion rang around him. The onion and Zigopoulos were both red faced and tautened, the rest seemed to be biding their time.

"...we can talk to them! Buy them? Persuade them!" this was the onion, fat gold rings on his fingers, "There is no need for bloodshed against our own Greek people who fought for us against Guiscard and his Norman bastards!"

Bishop Kristophoros was nodding and seemed to be about to agree, but was overridden by Zigopoulous, an imposing figure even sitting down, his ham fists clenched white, "We cannot stand betrayal, the theme of Dyrrachium is the realm of my family and we have been closely aligned to the Macedonians. I fought against Guiscard and I know Savvas, he has no steel in his blood, only treachery. A taste of steel will send him fleeing! We must!"

"I would speak." Ioannis was young and his voice new, but his heavy tones spoke of the burden of command eloquently, and the men he might one day rule turned to face him, "if we pay off this cur it sets an example. That if you betray the Basil he will give you money to turn your cloak back again. We cannot afford it and we cannot afford treachery." the hooded man coughed, "We must kill this man and hang his head above the walls as an example to the Empire. These are hard times."

The hooded man coughed again and spoke during Ioannis' pause, "Young princeling is soft in the head and does not understand complexities of Byzantine politics..."

"It seems to me he understands quite well enough!" boomed an enthused Zigopoulous "My lord is wise to council thusly! Would he commit his forces alongside ours we shall rejoice in the lamentations of Savvas' women!"

Disliking that, Iakovos lifted his eyes to look at his man-at-arms sternly, admonishing him, "We... must not hurt the... people of Dyrrachium... just... the usurper deserves punishment... his people are innocent and need... to know we are kind to them and do not blame... them... at least not the first... time..."

"Nevertheless though, brother, we must march." his brother did not have the stilted speech of his elder, but retained the wry tone.

"But not to rape or maim or indulge in the red tide of war." the priest had a sepulchral voice, and Iakovos knew he spent rather too much time in the district of red lights to be as devout as he wished to appear. His devotion to God nevertheless was at least the equal of his devotion to whores and his preaching was popular with the peasants.

"My men do not abuse the rights of Byzantine citizens, priest." the hooded man coughed again as his master spoke "We will march on this Savvas and reclaim his territory for you, Zigopoulous."

"And may... the amity of our people... be remembered... take half of our strength of toxotai..."

"Would we have permission to take them to Italy, lord?" the onion man spoke in untutored tones, "For once we have conquered your betrayer, we march on a similar pretender in Longobardia." the hooded man raised a hand, Ioannis scowled heavily and the silent Kievan's ice cool façade slipped for a moment's scornful smile.

"The Guiscard!?" rumbled Zigopoulos.

"Not the Guiscard, no. Boy is soft in head, but not hard in men enough to return our dead to the Guiscard." the hooded man stood, from Iakovos' angle you could see the Golden nose and Turk features, "We march on Savvas, gentlemen, and will depart on the morrow. You will feed our men and provide supplies for us. Good day to you my Lords."

The imperial four left the room after the pleasantries had been done, followed by Zigopoulos once he had filled his goblet with wine and grabbed some grapes, a burning flame lit behind his eyes. The priest and the brothers each took a reasonable amount of wine and leaned back in their chairs.

"We learn that Balgiarotes... is a fool the young... Komnenos bloodthirsty his right-hand... man a mute... Kievan and the Basil has sent Taticius to... be their nanny... what a merry... bunch... go with them... brother... and see if he fights... as badly as he talks... we may have... interesting times... ahead of us..."

"Ecclesiastical letters from Arta inform me that Savvas knows the host is coming for him and is holed up in the fort there." every sentence was a sermon with the priest a natural intoner, "He cannot hope to hold that mass of men with Taticius nagging counsel at the child general."

"Never...theless... brother... Michael would you go with... Zigopoulos and watch for us..."

Merely nodding, the clean-shaven brother stood, "Await my findings with interest. The boy does not understand the complexities of Byzantine politics." he chuckled, stiffly inclined his head and swept out of the same door as the co-emperor had.

Dear Iakovos,

Brother, the pretender was poorly equipped and his castle full of unrest when the host arrived. Within two days the walls were breached and loyalist men held the outskirts of the city. By the evening, the castle itself belonged to our friend Zigopoulos again.

The boy Komnenos and his armoured guard rode into the fight only once Savvas was reduced to a last stand in the main plaza. Whether this was Taticius' brainchild or not, the men sing of him as a great warrior now.

A simple victory for a simple boy, but one which proves him a man who can hear the song of swords rather better than the song of politics. We will not be defeating this one. On the battlefield at least.

Yours, Michael

IV.

Dyrrachium, 1101 AD

Ioannis

Autumn leaves tumbled down in the Epirote woods as Ioannis stood naked in his tower room, gazing outwards. The cool breeze pleased him as it riled through his cropped warrior's hair, the long heat of summer had lasted for too long. Only bloodletting could relieve the monotony of summer, he had found. As a child he would spend every free moment hunting, running away from the pointless lessons on politics, the grave lecturing of the priests... but not from Taticius. He did not like that his father had sent the golden-nosed Turk with him, but his military advice was invaluable, his insistence on attacking each of Arta's walls at once had saved many lives, it was doubtless, still, the tactician was insolent of his rank. Better than his father-in-law at council though, the merchant had not made his fortune through learning how to deal with lordlings pride and endless nosiness. And Yaroslav's approach of safety in silence was just the other side of a worthless coin. Thessaloniki had been a disaster, the Phillipus were not to be trusted, it was a good thing Taticius had wiped their arses that day. Ioannis clenched his fists with the effort of thinking politically with his 'soft brain', he clenched his left fist thinking about his father's friend who rode with him. Would he be sent across the Adriatic with him in spring?

There was a knocking without, "Enter." in his full birthday suit, the co-emperor did not deign to unveil his full manhood to the servant, but remained facing the window. "Speak."

"Milord, a delegate from Constantinople awaits you in the audience chamber." the voice quavered nervously, the boy could only be a year or two younger than Ioannis but treated him like he was a dragon. Which he wasn't, he was a double-headed eagle of Komnenos. And a warrior born.

"I shall see him as soon as I have made myself ready." surely it was news of reinforcements for the attack in Spring on the Apulian pretender at Bari. They would need men if the Guiscard thought to assert his dirty Norman foothold on the Adriatic coast.

When he reached the audience chamber, Taticius had got there already, truly the Turk was like a bad smell. His hood was as always down and the messenger looked discomfited. There was a letter on the desk bearing his father's seal. When the messenger saw he entered, he stood, Taticius leaned back and looked over his head. His golden nose and scarred face looked even more horrendous upside down.

"What news from the city?"

"News from the Emperor, my Lord. In the letter."

Ioannis, I would have you know these things first, before others know them. Make sure Taticius knows, he will have a plan for this... it was in his father's hand and had his style too... listen to Taticius, always listen to Taticius... firstly, the Kievans and the Novgorodians have signed a defensive military compact with us to further the Orthodox Tryptarchy. Should the Seljuks dare break our ceasefire they will have a lot of angry northerners coming down on Iconium. Therefore we have secured the Anatolian front and can concentrate on the west and Italia.

The Holy Roman Emperor and I have brought an accord. We are military allies and for a nominal fee we have become new masters of Bologna, so we have our foothold on Italy. We are working on bringing the Apulian down by similar means, so sit tight for the moment. It could be I need you to return to Constantinople by the New Year, the Kaiphalas clan are proving a hard nut to crack and I may need to marry Andronikos off to them to placate them.

Ioannis. Make sure that Taticius reads this. Spend the winter at Dyrrachium or Thessaloniki if the Phillipus look rebellious, although you have proved yourself a fighter. Receive any messenger from the Pope courteously and lavish gifts on any Venetians, Milanese or Genovese. If you must fight, fight the Bulgarian bandits who insist on foraging south of Skopje.

Imperator.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Ioannis grabbed the letter up and strode over to the fire, tearing the parchment and dropping it piece by piece into the inferno then stoking it. "My father says to prepare for setting sail to Italy as soon as spring is upon us. The Holy Roman Emperor will assist us. Messenger, I shall provide you a letter on the morrow."

He stalked off back to his chambers and the duty of making love to his dim-witted wife. Although she had beauty to launch a thousand ships, she remained a void of conversation and had no interest in the art of war. All Dimitra ever did was smile her smile and flick her hair. Ioannis viciously hoped Andronikos' marriage would prove as dull as his and cursed his father to the seven hells for this. Scowling, he entered the chamber, dismissed the maidservants and did his duty. He would have an heir.

COMING SOON

Battle in Bari, words from the Emperor and imperial intrigue.

AFTERWORD

I would like to thank all the above writers for agreeing to submit their work to this first volume in the 'A Tiger's Leap' anthology series! It has been a labour of love to launch this into a wider reading public and I appreciate their patience and support throughout all the processes involved here. The second volume will be published at the end of July so please keep an eye out for it here at Smashwords - where you will be able to continue reading the tales begun above as they deepen and broaden onto an epic canvas!

Francis Hagan

About the Editor

I have been writing on and off since I was a shy lad hiding under the bed and scribbling in an out of date diary (I think it was about my space travels). Most of my works have been either plays populated with grotesques who stumble around ruins and those odd places we forget about or epic tales of those last Roman legionaries as they falter and fall at the end of Empire.

Over the last three years, I have embarked on a series of plays which I have entitled 'The Ostraka Plays' and in which I am exploring that space where the irrational and the seductive collide. I remain fascinated by a poetics which allows an imagination to populate a forgotten nook in history outside our conventions and expectations. In these plays, the audience is invited into worlds which remain provisional and insecure - and where freedom is that release from convention.

The other side of my writings could not be more opposite - in these stories, the dying light of Rome flutters one last desperate time as I seek to follow the last of the Eagles down into their fates. Here, archaeological record, literary fragments, and my own invention intertwine to set a stage ripe for heroics and betrayal.

Contact with Me Online

The Skinmaker

https://www.facebook.com/francis.d.hagan

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/TheWracked

