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Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Salve all. Following is a placeholder for my first EB AAR, Where Eagles Dare. This will be a .80 beta AAR, and will not officially begin until the release of .80. Until then, I will be doing an in-depth prologue, covering the majority of the Pyrrhic War up until the time of the game's start--introducing characters, plotlines, and giving historical background.
Once the game begins I will post some detailed rules I will be playing by, etc, but for the time suffice to say that this will be a realistic themed campaign, and I will attempt to do my best to play the Romani as a real nation, with real political goals and problems. Feedback, comments, and questions are greatly encourged. Enjoy!
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
https://i41.photobucket.com/albums/e...eaglesdare.jpg
*****
For EB .80 Beta Coming Soon...
"The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
And is not careful what they mean,
Knowing that with the shadow of his wings
He can at pleasure stint their melody."
--Titus Andronicus, ACT IV, Scene IV
In 281 BCE, the Greek city of Taranto assisted King Pyrrhus of Epirus in his conqest of the island of Corcyra, providing financial assistance to the hot-headed Epirote ruler who styled himself a second Alexandros. In return for this aide, the democrats of Taranto sought Epirote aid against the Romani, whom had recently completed their own conquests of the Samnites and Lucanians, on the very doorstep of Magna Graecia. Fearing future Roman expansion, and knowing they could not defeat the upstart city in battle, the Tarantines lured Pyrrhus into their scheme to do their fighting for them. With a bending of an ancient naval treaty, Taranto declared war on the Romans after rebuffing their envoys of negotiation. It is believed that Pyrrhus' true intentions were for Sicily, which he would use as a base to capture Carthage to finance his future wars against Macedonia. In any case, the Epirote king landed in Italia in 280 BC with 25,000 troops, many of them on loan from other Successor kings in hopes the firebrand would use them in Italy and not against themselves. He met the Roman army under Publius Laevinius on the Siris river near the Greek city of Heraclea, in what would become the first pitched engagement of the war that would send the city of seven hills onto the center stage of an international arena...
PRELUDE
Four days before the Ides of Quintilis
Near Pandosia, Lucania
473 Ab Urbe Condita
He awoke suddenly with sudden, terrifying awareness and crystal clarity. There was sudden rabid sqwaking as a huge crow startled and hopped back from him, dark feathers falling as it lept into the blinding brightness of the flaming sun high in the western sky. He was lying face-down on the cold, wet earth, and all around the sounds of hungry carrion birds calling to one another or flapping about restlessly. His eyes were focused but he could not see in the brightness of the setting sun, and as he tried to prop himself up he realized in sudden horror he could not feel his legs.
He was prostrate upon an cold carpet of churned and muddy grass, and could feel the frost on the wind as his hair ruffled in front of his eyes from it. His fingers were cold and numb, but he propped himself up tentatively. His head swam with blurred memories and stinging pain that rang like a blacksmith’s hammer on iron. Groaning, he managed to shield his eyes from the sun and look about furtively.
The dead lay everywhere.
Strewn about like rag dolls after some giant’s temper tantrum, bodies lie scattered across the plain, still and half-frozen, many lying atop others and some in macabre piles three-men deep. The mud was stained with dried blood except where the new fall had obscured it, and tatters of clothing, weapons, and battered coreslets and helms lied like so much flotsam here and there. The crows were feasting lazily, flapping about and fighting over scraps of cold flesh, calling to one another like bickering children. To his right some distance there was the largest mound of death, and there on a slanted pike-staff a tattered banner of crimson and gold was fluttering limply in the small, cold wind. Behind him loomed the corpse of a large chestnut mare, having thrown him before it fell.
He should be dead, but he was not.
He tried to call for help, but the word came out as a dry-mouthed croak that cracked before he could utter the word. His hands were stained blackish-red with dried blood, and he could now feel the swelling pain on his head where something had struck him. He pushed himself up further, shaking the dirt from his back, and with relief realized the feeling was slowly coming back to his legs.
Some in Rome later said a god had visited him that day amongst the dead, though he never claimed as much himself. Nearly seven thousand Roman men lay dead upon that field, and he yet lived, a pawn of Fortuna. And she was a fickle goddess indeed.
He remembered with a pang of iron in his head the crushing press of the battle, the roar of men and beasts and the din of metal crashing. There were screams and cries, and the sky had been thick with javelins and darts that fell like summer rain. One man dragged his comrade away from the line, pink slivers of intestines hanging from his bowels where an Epirote spear had gorged him. Another clutched his face where sprouted the shaft of a feathered arrow fired from an enemy he could not even see.
And then the elephants. The beasts were like boulders animated with a foul spirt, monstrous machines that marched carelessly into the line of hastati, flinging men aside like so much refuse. Some had been killed by the men in the towers mounted to the animal's hides, others gorged by their iron-sheathed tusks or stampeded to death underfoot. The Roman line had melted away like mist in the sunlight when Pyrrhus unleashed their charge, and what seemed a victory turned quickly into catastrophe and rout.
The wind howled as if to warn him, and he managed to turn himself over with an aching groan. With horror, he saw dark figures behind him--hooded men moving amongst the dead, each carrying a long staff and knives at their sides. They were scavengers or thieves, who had come to liberate the earthly treasures that had not been already taken by the victors of the battle. He tried to call at them for help, mumbled something incoherent instead and groaned as his head swam with dizziness and nausea and then finally collapsed again on his back, staring up into the sun-bright, flame-red sky.
“Dead?” one of the bandits asked, a tall, crow-faced man with deep-set dark eyes and a wisp of beard that hung to his chest.
“Soon enough,” replied the other, raising the hem of his robe and stooping beside him to rummage through the pouch tied to his belt.
“He lives yet though, look at his eyes. Is he wounded?” The bandit leaned on the staff like a walking cane as they looked him over. Overhead a crow called out, as if warning them to leave its prey be.
“I can see no wound, but the cold will kill him sure enough when night falls.” This one was dark of complexion, with a hawk-like nose, heavy brow, and a beard black as coals. Finding nothing of intrest in his belt pouch, he reached into the man’s tunic and there snapped the smaller pouch hanging from his neck.
"Volturn," the thief said, examining the tiny tablet he found within the pouch. "This one is Roman nobilitas," he fingered the tablet and held it to the sun. "You see?"
"Cornelli..you know it?" Volturn asked, shrugging.
"No, but someone will. Let's take him."
Suddenly the sound of a long, low horn came from the west, and the rogues looked at one another, a wordless caution exchanging between their eyes.
The dark-bearded one slowly rose, fingering the tailisman he had found within the pouch. He looked hard and long towards the mist-shrouded west from whence the horn came.“Let us be gone then,” he said at length, grabbing one of the Roman's arms to drag.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
This piece of work makes my AAR pale in comparison. The imagery is just amazing. I'll enjoy reading yours far more than I will enjoy writing mine.
Great work!
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
that is some incredible writing...
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
ok, EB's out! Is this AAR in the works? or has it been too long? :sweatdrop:
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Damn! I've only just read this. Exceptional writting. What a literary ambience... :stunned:
A masterwork, Zak!! :2thumbsup:
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Write it now or I shall hound you to the ends of the earth for depriving us all of a brilliant, novella-style AAR.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Wow, I think I should call a publisher. Can't wait for the next installment.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Ha! Salve guys, thanks for all the support.. yes I suppose I will get around to writing the beginning of this work, EB is more of a tool for me to be able to write the story I want.. Im somewhat of a prolific AAR writer on the Paradox forums. Stay with me and youll be able to drudge through the literary forest with me.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Quote:
Originally Posted by Zaknafien
Im somewhat of a prolific AAR writer on the Paradox forums. Stay with me and youll be able to drudge through the literary forest with me.
Hehehe. Nice. :grin:
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Quote:
Originally Posted by Zaknafien
Ha! Salve guys, thanks for all the support.. yes I suppose I will get around to writing the beginning of this work, EB is more of a tool for me to be able to write the story I want.. Im somewhat of a prolific AAR writer on the Paradox forums. Stay with me and youll be able to drudge through the literary forest with me.
Do you write on the Paradox Forums? Tell me what are some of your Aar's? There
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
My name is Alhazen on there, I wrote Sins of the Father , a CK AAR, and Sons of Mars, a Rome-mod Eu2 AAR that is technicallys till ongoing if I ever get a chance to write for it.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
You wrote Sins of the Father? That's one of my Favorite CK AAR's! That AAR made me buy CK.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
The Pyrrhic War initially started as a minor conflict between Rome and the city of Tarentum over a naval treaty violation by one of the Roman consuls. Tarentum had, however, lent aid to the Greek ruler Pyrrhus of Epirus in his conflict with Corcyra, and requested military aid from Epirus. Pyrrhus honored his obligation to Tarentum and joined the complex series of conflicts involving Tarentum, Thurii (as well as other cities of Magna Graecia), the Romans, Samnites, and Etruscans. To further complicate historical analysis of the conflict, Pyrrhus also involved himself in the internal political conflicts of Sicily, as well as the Sicilian struggle against Carthaginian dominance.
Pyrrhus' involvement in the regional conflicts of Sicily reduced the Carthaginian influence in Sicily drastically. In Italy, his involvement seems to have been mostly ineffectual but had long term implications. The Pyrrhic war
proved both that the nations of ancient Greece were incapable of defending the independent colonies of Magna Graecia and that the Roman legions were capable of competing with the armies of the dominant Mediterranean powers of the time — the Greek kingdoms. This opened the way for Roman dominance over the city states of Magna Graecia and advanced the Roman consolidation of power in Italy greatly. Rome's proven record in international military conflicts would also aid its resolve in its rivalry with Carthage, which was eventually to culminate in the Punic Wars.
In 279 the Epirote king won his costly victory at Asculum. While campaigning on Sicily, the Republic rebuilt his army and upon his return to the Penninsula was confronted by a force that outnumbered him greatly at Beneventum in 275. After quitting Italia, the would be conquere became occupied elsewhere, leaving a token garrison to assist in allied Tarentum's defense, and the whole of Magna Graceia open to Roman dominance..
Marcus Cornelius awoke suddenly with a shout, to the sound of pattering rain on the tegulae tiled rooftop and a flash of lightning beyond the alcove in the night. The curtain had blown inward from the wind and the archway was wet from the rain he could see refelcted in the diminishing lamplight. His brow was damp with persperation, and his hands shivered slightly in the unsuspected chill of the night air.
The memory of that day faded like mist as he awoke, thankfully, and Marcus Decimus sat up in the bed and ran a hand through his sweat-damp black hair, breathing deeply. So many had died, and the torture he had recieved at the hands of his captors...he rubbed the scarred tissue on his hands in remembrance of the fire and closed his eyes to chase the dream away again.
His cubiculum was small, typical of a junior family member of the household. The floor was smoothed stone with rushes and the tiled walls depicted a typical mosaic on the longest portion whose archway led into the garden. An olive oil lamp sizzled the remainder of its fuel against the doorway.
He stood, slipping on his sandals and moving to the portico, rain drizzling at his feet. The night air was cold, uncommonly so for the season, and a dark front of clouds flecked with the occasional flash of lightning cast a pall over the slumbering city of Rome.
The view of the city was good, as their domus was perched on the Palantine, directly adjacent to the Forum on the corner of the Clivus Sacer and Clivus Orbius. To the west he could see the lightning flashes reflected off the bend in the Tiber as it snaked its way through the city beyond the Aventine and out to the sea. The cold air filled his lungs and the rain fell on his brow, cooling him.
The storm did not bode well as an auspice for his journey. Tomorrow, he would set out with a turmae of cavalry guards for Arpi to join his cousin Lucius Scipionii with the Legion massing there for the summer thrust into the Graeci stronghold of Tarentum, which the Senate had planned as a definitive end to the struggle with the dominion of Phyrrus that had engulfed the Res Publica for the past years. The self-styled heir of Alexandros had left Italia long ago, fighting with his armies in the Graeci homeland, but his influence held sway in the south, in what was called Magna Graecia. Tarentum was their defacto capital, a strong city which had essentially begun the war by
inviting Phyrrus and his invading army to defend them.
The thought of several days on horse-back through the rugged Appenines and into the foothills of Apulia did not strike him as enjoyable even in the best of weather.
"Marcus, what on earth are you doing?" came the familliar voice.
"I couldn't sleep, the storm woke me," he replied without looking back.
Domita roused from the bed and came to stand beside her husband, slipping her hands onto his slender shoulders.
Theirs was a marriage of love, rare enough within the nobility of the Res Publica, but when Marcus was found unsuited for the Senate his political career was effectively ended and his father gave his blessing to the union with a significantly lower household.
"Is it the dreams again?" She asked.
"It's gone now," he said, and turned to kiss her on her brow. "I believe I will begin packing for our journey. Go back to sleep."
There then came a rapping on the door that disturbed their embrace.
"Who is it?" Marcus asked.
"Master, it is I, Phalerus," their chief household slave replied from beyond the doorway. "Sir, your father is here."
"What on earth.." Marcus grabbed his folded household tunic from the chair and pulled it over his shoulders before walking outside.
The reception area was wet from mud-spattered sandals and dripping paenulae, long hooded cloaks that brushed the wearer's feet. A group of men stood therein, drying themselves. A tall man emerged from the group and came to embrace Marcus lightly, kissing his cheek. "Marcus, good to see you," he said.
"Father, what is the meaning of this?"
"It is something best discussed in private," he said, incling his head towards his companions.
"Very well. Phalerus, take their cloaks." Marcus commanded. "And get some wine for the Consul."
*****
The Sign of the Dancing Man
Aventine Hill, Roma
The Dancing Man was a seedy sort of establishment, not a place to be visited alone at night in any case--its reputation was one of drag-out fights and knives in the back over gambling matches. Frequented by sailors, foreigners, slaves, and moneylenders, it was not a place an upstanding Roman would be seen in.
Serventius was not an upstanding Roman, though. He walked down the mud-sodden street oblivious to the cacophony of noise coming from the many taberna along the street. It was a dreary evening and cold as well, and the brothels and taverns were bustling with noise and light. He pulled the cowl lower about his face as a droplet of rain ran down
the brim, and came to the thick-set door of the Dancing Man.
Candles burning luridly from within clay bowls lit open archway whose muddy steps led down into the taproom, and a large Coriscan sailor pushed past the him as he came down the stairwell, the sailor's breath reeking of sour wine.
The bar was an old wine cellar, its cool cobblestone walls slick with moisture and not a little mold, with rough-hewn tables scattered about the common room and several shelves of alcohol on the far. The owner kept rooms for rent upstairs, though few of them had doors and none bore locks, it was a dangerous place to stay and only the most desperate did so.
The place was full of your usual assortment of scum--fat crooked merchants from gods-knew where, lusty sailors come up the Tiber from foreign ports of call to ply their wares and steal good Romans' money, gap-toothed whores and dice-throwing con-men. Serventius found a stool against the farthest trestle-table in the corner of the place and kicked the mud off his boots before taking a seat. As always, he sat facing the room, aware of any movement within the taberna.
"You are Caius' man?" a thickly accented Greek asked him almost as soon as he sat, seemingly coming from nowhere.
He did not look up and took a sip of the sour piss that served for wine in this place one of the serving women had brought.
"I might be. And you?"
"Ambraxis."
"The pleasure is mine..." He examined the agent as he moved to sit across from him. A short, stocky fellow, Ambraxis was also thickly cloaked against the rain. His short black beard was neatly trimmed, and his eyes dark and inquisitive beneath his hood.
"Payment has been made already. I can get you into Tarentum, but once you are established our connection ends. You understand?"
"Indeed--" Serventius stopped in mid-sentence, feeling a presence behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a tall Numidian standing behind him, wrapped in cured leathers and a thick hide, his skin leathery and dark, his beard braided. “Go away,” Serventius said, calmly.
The Numidian grunted out something in his native tongue, which Serventius didn’t understand.
“He says he wants to fight,” Ambraxis groaned.
“What for?” Serventius asked, unintimidated but annoyed by the interruption.
“Who knows. He probably thinks youre a gladiator.”
“Tell him no.”
Ambraxis did so, and the Numidian only grunted and pulled out a long knife from his belt.
“He still wants to fight,” the Greek said, almost amused by now.
Serventius groaned, then ran his hand over his face. “First blood?” He asked, Ambraxis , not the Numidian.
After a moment’s translation, the Greek responded “Aye.”
Serventius reached back, his wrist moving like a rattle-snake striking fast as you please, and before the African knew it, he no longer possessed the knife that had been in his hand a moment before. The Roman gripped the blade and ran it across the palm of his left hand quickly, drawing a bright sheen of blood along the cut.
“He wins,” he said.
The few men who had crowded near to watch the coming fight laughed, and the Iberian growled in indignation. He snatched at the knife, and Serventiuslet him take it back easily.
“He says you mock him,” The Greek grinned, though he could hardly contain his own amusement.
With a look of frustration the tribesman turned and skulked off to the other side of the tavern, where his companions were looking at him with disapproval. Serventius watched him sit back down at their table, and then turned back to the foreigner as the crowd too went back to their respective tables and drinks, the excitement over for the time being.
"Tarentum." He said, broaching the subject again.
"Aye. I have several men within the city watch, and can easily place you to observer their movement. Aiakides controls the citadel, and keeps his Epriote soldiers garrisoned there. It is a difficult place to envelop, but you will see that for youself. This is my plan...."
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Quote:
Originally Posted by Zaknafien
he saw a tall Numidian standing behind him, wrapped in cured leathers and a thick hide, his skin leathery and dark, his beard braided. “Go away,” Serventius said, calmly.
The Iberian grunted out something in his native tongue, which Cale didn’t understand.
AAAAARGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
NUMIDIAN = IBERIAN ????? What the hell are you thinking? :furious3:
Other than that, excellent...
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
oh dammit..good catch. piece of an earlier draft!
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Great AAR! I am sure everyone will be following this!
Quote:
481 Ab Urbe Conditia
(472 BCE)
Is this correct? Shouldn't it be (269BCE)?
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
First, thanks!
And I dont think so, if you take the founding of Rome to be 753 BCE. Then again I'm not really a math whiz, so I could be wrong :)
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Well, 481 years after the fundation of Rome (753BCE) would be 272CE. And besides, 472BCE was a few years after the second Persian invasion of Greece and we are talking about a couple of years after Pyrrhus here.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
uh, no.. 753 BCE as 0 AC. 481 years after 0 AC is 481 AC. 753 - 481 = 272 BCE.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Ok wtf I have now been confused.
The dates I know are BC and AC. Wtf is BCE????
:help:
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Quote:
Originally Posted by Zaknafien
uh, no.. 753 BCE as 0 AC. 481 years after 0 AC is 481 AC. 753 - 481 = 272 BCE.
Emm...that's what I said.
Code:
Well, 481 years after the fundation of Rome (753BCE) would be 272CE
BCE,CE = Before Common Era, Common Era. Used instead of BC, AD.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
So what are you arguing about? Its correct, like I said lol.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Quote:
Originally Posted by Zaknafien
So what are you arguing about? Its correct, like I said lol.
Because in your original post you say
Quote:
481 Ab Urbe Conditia
(472 BCE)
Which is wrong, surely?
Other than that, it rocks!
Foot
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
oh.. er... I mustve missed that one.. clearly I meant 272, game start date.. this is why lieutenants have editors :) thanks Foot :) *wipes egg off face*
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Quote:
Originally Posted by Zaknafien
Serventius groaned, then ran his hand over his face. “First blood?” He asked, Ambraxis , not the Numidian.
After a moment’s translation, the Greek responded “Aye.”
Serventius reached back, his wrist moving like a rattle-snake striking fast as you please, and before the African knew it, he no longer possessed the knife that had been in his hand a moment before. The Roman gripped the blade and ran it across the palm of his left hand quickly, drawing a bright sheen of blood along the cut.
“He wins,” he said.
The few men who had crowded near to watch the coming fight laughed, and the Iberian growled in indignation. He snatched at the knife, and Serventiuslet him take it back easily.
Did the Iberian thing again.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Dammit you guys are killing me here.. I had originally written an Iberian in the scene then thought better of it and decided what the hell would an Iberian be doing in Rome. While plausible it just didnt seem right--anyhoo, I had to copy and paste that portion into the typing window for the post after losing the save and thought I had edited out the changes, but apparently I'm an idiot ;)
I think its more of a game for you all now :P
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Iberians were widely used as mercenaries, from Africa, passing through Sicily and southern Italy to Greece. Not that shocking one would be in Rome. ~;)
EDIT: BTW, almost forgot [I'm an idiot], great AAR.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Yeah, it's just fun being difficult. Great AAR btw, never seen one go this long without any action to report on. :laugh4:
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
absolutely fantastic AAR you have here! :egypt: :2thumbsup:
now where's the next update?:whip: :clown:
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Marco Vorens was not happy.
He was wet, first of all, a sheen of icy rain had pelted the City late in the evening, and the walk from the Forum Boarium to the Capmus Martius had not been enjoyable. His paenula cloak was sodden and heavy, his sandals water-logged and mud-covered. The chill had not diminished with the first light of dawn, either. Even now, the sky in the east was slowly lightening, with a haze of pinkish-red illuminating the mists that shrouded the Quirinial hill. The air was damp and cold, and the City was already awakening with the rumbling of carts and wayns and the sounds of vendors opening their stalls for the business day. Drovers cursed as they were caught in traffic, and dogs were barking in the alleyways. The sick homeless lay on the sides of the narrow ways, clutching their beggars' cups closely. More wealthy men were being carted along in litters by strong bearers, their windows closed to the filth of the street.
Aside from all that, he had not slept--and was still nursing the purplish bruise on his back where a large Corsican had hit him with a stool.
He rubbed the bruise again, wincing when he touched it. Marco was not a small man, fully half a head above the average Roman, and well made to boot. His clean-shaven head was knotted with scars, and his jaw was strong and flecked with sparse growth of beard stubble. The mark of a nasty cut still showed on the side of his face from a street-fight three years past in Capua, but served to make him look distinguised, some said, instead of ugly. Three years he had served as an infantry centurion in the army, and four years before that as a regular fighting man, first commanding a maniple of hastati and then serving as a decurion of the cavalry in Samnium. He had seen battle, and known death and fire. There was not a corner of Italia that had not seen his blood, he liked to boast, except for maybe the wild-lands of Gaul This-Side of the Alps.
The narrow alleyways of the Aventine eventually broadened as the Field of Mars revealed itself below.
Mars' Field was once owned by the Kings of Rome, but now was publicy owned land used for recreation and military training, as well as audiences for foreign diplomats who were not permitted to enter the City proper. There were squat temples erected on the vestiges of the field, and the shrines of dozens of strange and foreign deities, none of whom Marco wanted to draw the attention of. More importantly today, were the vast lines erected and stalls, outfitted for the mobilization of the Legion before its march south. A
crowd numbering in the thousands were milling about the Field, soldiers and their families mostly--but also outfitters, smiths, horse-breeders, merchants peddling trinkets and charms, politicians making speeches, slaves porting luggage, and hundreds of mules and horses and livestock.
The noise was deafening as he moved down into the Campus. Thousands of converstions and arguments, rumbling of wagons and horses, clanking of metal and the hammering of iron and bronze. Officers and decurions were shouting orders to groups of men, trying to garner some semblance of order to the process. Marco pushed past the first group of idlers, brushing their shoulders and placing a warning hand on the arm of one man who turned around angrily as he passed. Marco was not armed, but the bronze brooch that clasped his dark cloak was symbol enough of his rank for any soldier who had served long enough to know it.
Many of these men were new, though, the sons of land-owners and tradesmen old enough to serve in the Legions now, and eager to continue the war against the Graeci in the south.
Marco sighed inwardly as he looked on the sea of un-shaven faces, knowing it would be difficult to meld them into an efficient force by the time they met the enemy in the summer.
"Centurion Marco!"
Marco stopped and spotted the man calling him. It was one of the junior Tribunes for the army this year, a younger Aemilli...Lucius...he thought.
"Salve, sir," he said, saluting.
"Centurion, you are late for the muster. I've had no shortage of difficulty in trying to manage these men."
As if to accent his report, a chorus of bawdy laughter erupted from nearby. A group of new recruits were laughing and pushing one another, one of them wearing a bronze helmet that was quite too large for his head.
"If you will allow me, sir." Marco said, clearing the bile from his throat.
"Pluto's thorny cock you bloody fool, what in the hells do you think you are doing, soldier?" He shouted, storming to confront the group. "Stand at attention, now!"
The group all shambled to some form of the position of attention, except for the idiot with the helmet, who could not see from which direction the shout had come from. He began to pull the piece off, until Marco swiftly brough up his leg and kicked the young man in the chest, sending him sprawling to the wet grass, coughing. The centurion put a muddy foot on his chest and leaned his weight onto the poor man.
"Its a shame you couldn't see that blow coming, lad." He remarked with a grin. "You men--get out of here!" He shouted to the others. "One more case of foolishness like this and I'll see all your names on charges. And you, Hercules, what should I do with you?"
The grounded boy had finally managed to remove the helmet from his face, and did not struggle against the centurion's foot although the weight was clearly pressing him uncomfortably. He looked up fearfully, remarking, "Um, let me go with a warning sir?"
"Yes thats it, let you go with a ---Are you bloody kidding me?" Marco knelt down and snatched the man by the tunic, then lifted him to his feet with powerful arms. "If I even hear a whisper--a whisper!--of anything like this going on with you involed in it again, I'll personally see you turning pig shit in barrels for a month, you understand me?"
"Yes sir!" he shouted.
Marco let him go. "Oh," he said, as if an afterthought. "Your name, soldier?"
"Gaius Macrinus, sir."
"Very well, Macrinus. Carry on."
*****
The Campus Martius was a drained swamp, and today it still reeked like one. Men were being pressed into maniples everywhere, and tents had sprung up like a city of their own in the past hours as order was brought to the muster of the legion--they very word meant 'to levy'. Cookfires were already being lit and the cooks were preparing a meal for the evening, the scent of burning woodsmoke drifing through the air, mixed with the mud and sweat of then working masses. The soldiers of Roma were divided into service by wealth and value, the Comita Centuriata was summoned by one or both serving Consuls, and met here on the Field of Mars. The assembly was divided into centuries of voting men, iuniores, those aged 17 to 46 winters and were seperated by the value of military equipment each man could afford based on the net worth of his lands and slaves. Most were poor--horribly so, in fact, and could only serve the army in the most meagre way. Scouts, skirimishers, bait, to be more honest. The middle class were seperated between the hastati and princpes, medium infantry with decent armament and usually two or three pila and a short stabbing sword to be used in close contact. They could afford some armor as well, though most wore only a bronze pectorale or a breastplate of cured leather, with perhaps a pair of guantlets or greaves if they were wise. The triarii were the veterans of the Legion, more experienced, wealthier land owners who could afford to be outfitted with a full panoply of gear and weapons including the lethal hasta lance that hearkened to the phalanxes of elder days.
Marcus Cornelius shivered despite the fire that burned nearby in a bronze brazier filled with coals. The morning was wet and dreary, and had still not shaken the chill from the night. He pulled his white paenula more closely around his shoulders and moved his arms inside the wolf-fur lining.
A good portion of the men present today had been levied in the past, and would prove useful in the days of training to come during the march through Apulia. There would be days of running in armor, cleaning weapons, and formation drill with wooden weapons to get the newer recruits into the necessary shape to conduct battle maneouvers. Marcus would not be required to participate in such trianing, as nobilitas, and an eques, he was a personal retainer of the Tribunal Guard that would fall under command of his cousin Lucius Scipionii.
His father's words during the strange midnight visit came to him again. The message had stuck him to the core...he had spoken of treachery, and a plot so vile that he could scarcely believe it to be possible. But if his father believed it, then there must be merit to the threat, and he would certainly keep his eyes and ears open for signs of danger during the journey.
"Ah, young Cornelius," a voice called.
"Senator," he replied, greeing the newcomer. Appius Voltinii was a popular younger Senatore, elected to his first magistracy two years ago and quickly risen since--his espousing of public works and subsidizing of merchants was popular in many corners of the City.
"Ready to return to the good fight, I see." Voltinii always seemed to be smirking when he spoke, a feature Marcus found increasingly annoying. There was no bad blood between them, but something about the man struck him as unappealing.
"Oh, you know. What father wishes..."
"Hah!" he laughed. "Don't I know..well, you certainly look the part, I must say. I pray the gods favor you with more fortune than they did during your last military adventure."
"I've heard a man makes his own luck--besides, I survived, did I not?"
"True, true. The Consul came to your home last night?"
The man's spies were everywhere, then, perhaps even within the Cornelli household. What was it to you, Voltinii, Marcus wondered.
"My father came for a word. Nothing scandalous I assure you."
"Hard to believe that, Marcus. Let's be honest--there's rumors afloat, you know."
"Are there?"
Voltinii crept closer, and placed a hand on the Cornelli's shoulder. With his other hand, he produced a small scroll from within the folds of his toga. "Read this--but make certain you are alone when you do so."
Saying nothing more, he turned and melted back into the crowd.
Marcus turned the scroll over in his hands, and wondered what he had gotten himself into. Or more likely, what had his father gotten into...
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Can this still be called an AAR any more? Its too good and too detailed. If you carry on like this, you'll have to copyright it otherwise someone will try to publish it!
BTW, 'vestiges' means 'remains' so the vestiges of the field of Mars would be for example if it was mostly built on and only a few bits of grass were left. In context I think you might mean verges (I assume you are trying to say there are temples round the edges of the field).
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Quote:
Originally Posted by Kugutsu
...... Its too good and too detailed. If you carry on like this, you'll have to copyright it otherwise someone will try to publish it!
.....
Oh most defitely dude, you should copy right the story, but give due credit to CA and BIG credit to EB for the game and the images u will be showing.
IF u want to make some $ of it, feel free to publish it (oh and u will probably have to pay royalties from ur profits)
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Nah, most of the AAR type stuff I write, I consider just practice, you know..its a great way for amateur authors to hone their craft with a fairly wide, unbiased audience..so I appreciate all the comments you guys have, questions, character observations, etc.. it really helps me out!
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Excellent AAR. One of the best I 've seen for some time!
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
In early 272 BCE, due to both Consuls for the year being occupied in either the City or northern Italia, the Roman Senate voted to empower Lucius, eldest son of the Scipionii Cornelli, Praetorian imperium to lead a half-strength army on a punitive expedition into the Epirote-dominated territory of Magna Graecia, its strategic target to eventually be the capture or subjugation of the city-state of Tarentum, long an ally of the Molossian King. Scipio's plans were to march from one end of Magna Graecia to the other, showing the might of Rome and reducing the countryside until the Epirote proxy, Helenos Aiakides, a relative of Pyrrhus, chose to engage him. The army he led was to be a Praetorian army, that is, a full-strength muster of one Roman legion, with alae in support. In all, Scipio commanded nearly 8,000 infantry and 600 cavalry. The army was mustered at both Roma and at Arpi, and were ordered to unite in the early summer at Arpi for the march south into deepest Apulia. Elsewhere within the Res Publica, work was progressing on a paved road to unite Rome with Capua in the south and Arretium in the north, creating a vein of speedy travel from one end of the land to the other. Trade rights were secured with several of the Gallic tribes inhabiting Gaul-this-side-of-the-Alps, and many enterprising Roman merchants braved the rugged routes into their tribal lands for exchange.
*****
The Curia Hostilia
Roma, Latium
Feriae Parilia
481 Ab Urbe Conditia
Year of Consuls Spurius Maximus and Lucius Cursor
(272 BCE)
https://i41.photobucket.com/albums/e...ashid/R6XJ.jpg
The Forum Romanum was crowded with a writhing sea of folk. Romans loved their dies ferialis—festival days, and Aprilius was full of them. Work was forbidden--commerical or political, in theory--in lieu of polluting the sacred day, and important rites were preformed by the colleges of priests to continue the benevolence of the gods. Romans were bound by law to observe the rules about commerce, but were not required to participate in acts of worship. Most simply feasted on the bread and wine provided by the temples and came to watch the rituals, dances, and processions of brightly dressed priests and acolytes.
The Forum was one place—the other being the Circus on the Fields of Mars—where Romans could mix freely as a people. Originally a marsh, it had been drained to provide a meeting place for the warring inhabitants of the seven hills. As such, it was here where the Romans first learned to conduct their affairs as citizens, and it was here, where Roman politics was born. Like the City herself, the Forum was a chaotic jumble of discordant monuments, in ways a museum of the Republic’s history, a masoleum to its past, and yet still the hub of its modern life. It was crowded with market stalls, luxury shops, porticos and colonnades and fest-halls. On normal days, laywers would be found pleading their cases. Bankers would conclude deals and negotiate loans, Vestal Virgins tended their goddess’ flame, and everyone both rich and poor came just to be seen by other Citizens. It was politics, however, that still dominated the Forum Romanum, and even on holy days such as today, it was at the center of everyone’s thoughts.
The Feriae Parilia was devoted to the god Pales, lord of sheep and patron of shepards across Italia. The rituals involved were deeply connected with Roma's founding, and was seen to be integral to the continuation of prosperous sheep-herding and essentially the survival of all Romans everywhere. Sheep pens across the countryside were cleaned and decorated with ivy and flowers, and the hapless sheep themselves were purified in smoke that billowed from a suplhrous bonfire organized by Pale's flamines. Milk and cakes were offered to the god in his shrines, and shepards washed themselves in dew, drank milk from their flock, and lept through the bonfire in a sign of purifying themselves as well. In the culmination at the end of the day, ashes from calves burned in sacrifice were sprinkled into the largest bonfire by the Pontifex Maximus himself. The sacrifical ritual itself was extremely complex, from the sex of the animal involved to the amount of wine sprinkled upon the animal's head before it was killed.Its blood was caught in a bowl and then poured over the altar fire, while the entrails were then roasted and eaten by the flamines, the rest roasted for the feast itself where all Citizens could partake.
All around the colonnades and porticos of the Forum were crowds of people drinking and merry-making. Many wore wreaths in their hair or draped about their shoulders decorated with numerous spring flowers, and the area was a sea of pastel color as a multitude of flowers covered the paved and cobbled ground. Music piped across the Forum from numerous corners and balconies, tambourines and cymbals clanged from the steps of the temples. Rings of dancers had formed in front of many broad proches. Here was the Comitium, where citizens gathered to hear orators address them. Immediately adjacent was the Hostilium, where the Senate normally met, and a little to its south along the Sacra Via the Temple of Castor and Pollux, in front of which the tribunes would summon assemblies to debate and vote on laws.
A solemn procession heralded by pipes and drums made its way from the Jupiter Capitolinus, a column of flamine priests and pontiffs led by the Pontifex Maximus himself and golden busts of the Triad carried on ceremonial standards borne by acolytes. There came at the forefront Jupiter Optimus Maximus, followed by Janus Pater, and noble Minverva. Pales came last, for even though it was his day, the gods had an order which must be followed, just like the Roman people.
Manius Curius Denatus, three times Consul, and currently Censor, was of course required to take part in the festivities, as one of his religious duties as Consul for the year.
Not that he enjoyed such spectacles in the least. He was a stoic man, of simple tastes and prickly concerning his dignitas. When all was over, he retreated quickly into the recesses of the Senate house, splashing his face with water from a fountain to clear away the blood that had been sprinkled on him and his partner by the Pontifex Maximus.
"Thank gods that's over with,"he said, grabbing for a towel to wipe the water from his face. He stood before a stone fountain within the halls of the Hostilium, where he had washed the blood from his forehead. His toga had been stained by droplets, and he had been forced to send for a new one from his mansion on the Pallatine.
"Oh, please Manius, you've done this a hundred times, or more." The speaker was Spurius Maximus, the Senior Consul for the year. Spurius was effete and disturbingly-Hellenic in manor, and it was a wonder how he could have ever been elected tribune, let alone Consul. Of course, Dentatus had seen to that, and Maximus was conviently in the former Consul's hand.
"And it gets no more pleasant every year." From outside they could hear the faint rumblings of the crowds of Romans, the distant echo of music and laughter and boisterous shouts. The Senators had milled into the Hostilium slowly, always in their cliques of fours and fives and more, each faction vying for power over the others, whispering, conspiring, spying.
"This business with Blasio is troubling," Maximus said.
"He will not be an issue for much longer," Dentatus replied. "I fear his son knows as well, though." He tried to vigorously scrub the bloodstain on his tunic, only serving to turn the white cloth purple--the color of Kings, ironically, he thought. He tossed the towel at one of the House servants and undid the brooch that clasped his toga, letting it fall to the floor. Nude, he strode to the desk along the wall and poured himself a cup of warmed wine.
"Is it too much to pray a Greek arrow finds him in Apulia?" the Consul smiled.
"I would not count on the accuracy of Hellenic marksmanship for something so important," Manius replied snidely.
"So you have made preparations?" The Consul was clearly nervous.
"You do not need to trouble yourself with such things, you must have deniability if this ever comes to light."
"Very well, I trust you, Manius."
And that's why you're a fool, Dentatus thought. He smiled. "As well you should my friend. Together, we will lead the Republic into the new age."
A cough interrupted their plotting. Turning, the Censor saw a bald-headed slave holding a folded toga in his arms, brilliantly colored white.
“Ah, my toga is here. Leave it on the table, boy.”
“Let’s hurry, the Senate is about to convene. I will see you inside,” Maximus said, clasping his friend on the shoulder.
Centurion Marco sat on a short wooden stool within the dimly lit confines of his campaign tent, a flickering lantern hanging from the one pole supporting the low ceiling. It was warm that night, and he wore only his short soldier’s breeches and sandals as he used his carving knife to make precise cuts into the tiny piece of wood he held, his keen eyes closely concentrated on the figurine he was making slowly.
“Centurion Marco!”
“Dammit--!” Marco cursed, surprise, and wincing at the cut he had inflicted on himself. He sucked the drop of blood from his finger and rose, crossing to the tent flap and peering outside.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” the camp sentry said. He was a younger man, his chin flecked with sparse growth, and the plain oval scutum strapped to his back was clearly too heavy for him, but he would get used to it in time.
“What is it? Where is the duty centurion?” He grumbled, annoyed that the boy came to him during his private time. The man was his soldier, he thought, but certainly the duty centurion could handle whatever nonsense the boy thought was important enough to disburb him with.
“I don’t know sir, he didn’t come by to check at the hour. You were the only one I could think of coming to.” The sentry was nervous, and his eyes darted this way and that in the darkness beyond the tent.
Marco made a mental note to check tonight’s roster and personally visit the centurion who was slacking at his job—probably off with some trollop from the village they had passed in the afternoon, he imagined.
“Very well son, what is it.”
“I heard movement, in the brush beyond the camp, sir.”
“And?”
“And?”
“And is that all?”
“Um.. Yes. Sir.” The recruit was unsure of himself, and was probably feeling stupid for disturbing his commanding officer, Marco mused.
“Well we should certainly investigate. There could be some vicious dogs out there, you know.”
“Dogs, sir?”
“Aye, big bloody bastards too. Rip a man’s throat out, they can. And then there’s the wolves.” Marco had been soldiering so long, he could easily make those jests without cracking a smile or letting any indication whatsoever of his ruse. He even looked nervous himself for the young man’s benefit. Grabbing his pugio which hung from a notch on the same pole as the lamp, he slipped the leather strap around his neck.
“Let’s go.” He said, slapping the sentry on the back. This would be fun, he thought.
The roughly 3,000 men who had assembled in Rome made up an army that consisted of some 30 centuries divided into their 14 maniples, the first maniple being double-strength. The other half of the Legion awaited them in Arpi, still some days’ travel away. Each night the half-strength legion stopped to make camp, erecting row after row of tents and cookfires along the side of the Via Latina. Their journey south from Rome was going slower than expected due to the road construction being done at the behest of the Senate. The aedile in charge of construction and re-paving had told them not to worry, but clearly the man had not seen the actual work himself. The contractors were slack, and there were imperfections in large sections here and there, muddy furrows dug out from the sides of the earth that had become soupy from the rain and sucked at men’s sandals as they trudged by, weighted down by their packs and scutum. The trenches were incomplete and rained off into the road itself, exacerbating the situation.
The camp was silent for the most part, as the sun had set and men were turning in for what rest they could snatch before the camp prefect sounded the morning call before dawn. Here and there were isolated pockets of murmurs and hushed laughter, as the newer men jested and diced amongst themselves in their tents and hoped their centurions either didn’t notice or didn’t care—Marco certainly did not. Cookfires had been doused and an aromatic smoke wafted over the camp. At intervals along the picket were watchfires and sentries, more of a training formality for all knew there was no danger in Latium, save from brigands who preyed on lone travelers.
Marco felt the warm night air against his skin and heard the chirping of crickets in the brush nearby. Walking casually, they made their way to the guardpost where the duty centurion should be, Marco going over in his mind the choice words he would use with the man.
He stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he saw the torch within the post had been extinguished, and crouched, making a noise—hsst!—with his lips to warn his follower, and raising a hand to stop him.
Creeping forward slowly, he made his way to the flap of the tent which was raised and tied off at the top. The inside of the room was dark, and no sound came from within.
It was then he noticed the body.
The duty centurion was sprawled within, lying face down on the wet grass. There were no signs of struggle, no knocked over furniture or weapons. Marco knelt beside the man and checked—dead. His neck had been wrung like a chicken, and his face was turned at a grotesque angle to his shoulders.
He walked out of the tent hastily and looked at the young sentry.
“Get to the headquarters tent immediately. Sound the alarm.”
He groaned when the man hesitated. “Go!” he snapped, using his command voice.
Spies? Marco wondered. He looked around and all seemed peaceful enough throughout the camp. The crickets were still chirping in the woods, and above a thousand stars sparkled across the nighttime sky. Pulling his pugio from the sheath around his neck, he made his way for the tent where the tribunes slept to alert them while his soldier went to raise the alert.
By the time he crossed the majority of the camp and was within sight of the tribunes’ quarters, the great bronze alarm bell was crashing its alert. Men were groggily waking from their slumber and rolling out of their cots, and a young tribune emerged from his tent as Marco approached.
“Sir, there are intruders within the camp,” he reported.
“Status?” Lucius Cornelius asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He was wearing tunic and breeches, and had possessed enough wit to snatch his sword from the peg beside his cot before coming outside.
“One man dead, an officer. I’ve ordered the alert sounded, although the intruder is likely gone by—“
Just then the sound of an arrow zipped across the clearing, and Marco dived to the ground as it thunked loudly into a water trough beside them.
“You were saying, centurion?” Lucius asked, sardonically.
“Apologies, sir.”
Another arrow flew wide and struck the side of an adjacent tent, but did not penetrate and simply hung from the folds of the cloth. They heard muffled cursing, and then the sounds of hooves galloping away as the intruders presumably made their escape.
“Friends of yours?” Marco asked as Cornelius realized a third arrow they had not noticed, stuck into the wall directly behind where he had been standing moments before.
*****
The cavalry wing was dispatched to search for the attackers that same night, but returned before noon the next day as the army was on the march and reported having found no signs. Lucius Cornelius sat somberly on his chestnut mare, idly holding the reins as the column of soldiers marched by.
His thoughts tuned again to the letter Appius Voltini had given him. It was signed by Curius Dentatus, former Consul and current Censor of the Republic. In it was outlined a plot to place men loyal to Dentatus into positions of great influence within the Senate, and to use them to secure the continuance of the war with Epirus, even beyond the current strategic goals of forcing the Greeks off Italia once and for all—it advocated carrying the war to the shores of Illyria, and investing the cities of the Epirote Greeks as clients of the Republic. Such an idea was as opposed to Roman morals as a man naming himself King. What was worse was the methods by which these men intended to carry out their plot—a corruption of the College of Augures, and an catastrophe mentioned in name only to create outrage amongst the People. There was little else beyond that, save for a list of some few wealthy equites who were funding the conspiracy along with Dentatus.
How his father fit into the mess he did not know. Marcus Blasio was a favorite to run for the Consulship in the following year, and perhaps he had been invited into the conspiracy by Dentatus but refused to take part. Or so he hoped to believe. Such a stain on their family name was likely one that would not be forgotten soon if the plot were to fail.
Well, he would share his concerns with Scipio when they arrived at Arpi. Until then, all he could do was be cautious.
For Manius Dentatus was not a man who would fail twice.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Quote:
Originally Posted by Zaknafien
"I count on the accuracy of Hellenic marksmanship for something so important," Manius replied snidely.
"I would not count..." perhaps? :laugh4:
Keep up the good work though, I just got yelled at for ignoring Liz's demand that I begin cooking because I was reading this.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Gah :) good catch. Thats why authors have editors, I suppose :)
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
"Centurion Marco called sat"
pretty sure you could delete "called." its enjoyable, i'll be looking forward to the next one.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
This is the best-written AAR I've read in a while. I look forward to seeing more of it.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
These kind of AAR's are the best. Maybe I'll re-wright my Macedonian AAR I did some time ago at RTR forums...
Well, congrats, very good AAR and give Marco my best ;)
Btw, how much time did you spent in research?? I remember I had to read some books to find out how the mac army was locally organised to give more realism to the thing...
Cheers...
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
Thanks Electric Eel and MAIOR, glad youre liking it. I was Classical Antiquity major in school with a Roman focus so I knew quite a bit beforehand, but I still research alot..I have a pretty vast Roman library here.
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Re: Rome: Where Eagles Dare
I liked especially the Rob Roy bit ;)
Cheers...
