In the Lands of the Faithful: BC Hotseat Story Thread

[rossahh]

The diary Jean Bourday, soldier of Jerusalem

It had been quite a difficult time for us in the PLAN B army. Orders and counter-orders had resulted in a lot of marching and a lot of fighting. Not a lot makes sense anymore. The banner now reads:

The Army of
PLAN A B C D E F

The campaigns have been just as shambolic. The stirring victory of the Ayyubids at Acre was followed by that disaster on the road to Jaffa, where a single band of peasents routed the entire right flank and would have continued to rout the entire army, but they were overcome by that freak avalanche which had absolutely nothing to do with Pierre-digging-for-gold-on-that hill-the-day-before-the-battle. I suppose all would have been well after that except that battle was followed by the unfortunate friendly-fire incident where the Clerics were mistaken for Ayyubid cavalry. It wasn't until we were searching the bodies that we discovered our error. After taking 9 arrows out of the first cleric, we were able to indentify his robes. Needless to say we left the remaining 13 in him and fled the scene sharpish.

At the moment we're in the pursuit of some Ayyubids who have stolen the King's banner. We know it's the Ayyubids as we stole one of their maps and it says that we are right in the middle of their territory. It's actually quite funny - I'd never noticed that the Muslims use exactly the same alphabet as us, except for some strange reason their's is upside down! Crazy Muslims! When those bastards with the banner make camp tonight, we're gonna sneek in and kill them. We'll ride back to Jerusalem as heroes, mark my words.

[phonicsmonkey]

On the banks of the River Euphrates.

The word had spread quickly through the farming and fishing settlements dotted along the fertile strip which formed the east bank of Al-Furat. Tools and nets had been cast aside and abandoned by their owners, who had rushed to join the growing crowds gathered along the riverbank, straining their eyes across the hazy, lazy brown shallows to catch a glimpse of the strange visitors from the Indus valley.

A small boy who had shinnied up a coconut palm was the first to spot them, his shrill cry of “Fel! Fel!” causing a minor surge by the crowd towards the waters, in which an old woman was jostled and a man lost control of his pomegranates.

Sure enough, through a cloud of dust cast up by their grey, pounding, wrinkled feet, the immense beasts could be sighted making their stately way along the western bank of the river, their loinclothed handlers perched magnificently atop and clearly enjoying the attention they were getting from the villagers.

Everyone could see they were heading West, towards the lands of the infidel where their Caliph and his allies carried out their jihad for the glory of the mighty Allah…but nobody could say why, and all were puzzled and awed by the immense and inconceivable distance these great animals had travelled.

‘God is indeed great!’, many in the crowd were heard to murmur…

[rossahh]

The Castle Homs, northern Jerusalem


"I swear those grey hills have moved since yesterday!"

A chorus of laughter filled the battlements.

"Hills can't move you idiot!"

"I swear it. Yesterday those hills were still near the sands, today they're in the fields."

"Whatever you think, Georges." said a second voice, rife with sarcasm.

"Ok, I'll bet you 100 florins that those hills will have moved by next watch tomorrow." said Georges.

The second man, Javier, turned and winked at the other guards in the tower. "Why not make it more interesting. How about 100 florins from each of us? 600 all up."

"Done" said Georges quickly, holding out his hand. Javier, smirking, shook it.

The rest of the men burst our laughing again. "Where on earth are you going to get 600 florins from you idiot? What do you think you are, a Prince?" hooted one.

"Of course, if you can't pay us our money you will have to pay in other ways, starting off with taking over my latrine duties for the whole year." said Javier. Latrine duty was the worst and most disgusting duty in the whole castle.

"Ok," said Georges. He began to take a stroll around the battlements as the others chatted, laughing now and then. Georges already was starting to imagine what he could do with all of that money. I've always wanted a boat...

[Merlox123]

A Roman Merchant Quickly Comes into the Palace in Constantinople and is panicing. Every one looks at him with odd faces.

"MOVE WEST!... WE HAVE TO RUN! MY FAR EASTERN CARAVAN JUST WAS ATTACKED WITH GIANT.. WAR LIKE BEASTS... THEY SMASHED MY CARAVAN AND EAT MY CARGO!!!"

The Governer of Constantinople had a worried in his face.
"My god... They eat Steel... Silk...and our Spices...? What kind of beasts are these..?"

The Merchant cried again.
"NOOOO... They... they eat my cargo... of Peanuts..."

When the merchant said Peanuts... The whole room gasped... Due to their was only one kind of giant beast... who only eats peanuts... At that moment, a Giant book, dated back to the BC Roman era was brought to the counter, and every one gathered quickly, as pages flipped, turned, When it was finally found, The room gasped again, as their predictions were correct.

"These Beasts of great size, that eat Peanuts.. not people.. are named... Elle... Elleleph... Elephants..?... And... This was the reason why... We used Javevlins over bows...? Quickly! I want another Caravan of Peanuts to come and line a line of peanuts where you last saw them... They will feast and run right into our trap, and when Emperor Nevlous hears about this... I'll be the next in line of to be emperor!"

The whole room was silent.. Knowing that they were very out numbered... but now the governer was only caring about Elephant hunting..

[rossahh]

"Turks, Bedouins, Arabs, Muslims and Hindus all fighting together. How? Where do you come from?"

The figure on the ground was silent, refusing to answer but glaring defiantly at the questioner. One of those standing roughly stood of the figure's open wound, causing him to cry out in pain.

"I said, where do you come from?" growled the questioner.

The figure, eyes more fearful than defiant now, whispered. "India."

The questioner recoiled slighlty. India, what the devil was that? he thought to himself. Recognition finally dawned on him. But no, it can't be. That's the other side of the world from here!

Bending down, the questioner asked the figure, "Do you mean Indus, the far east?"

The figure blinked rapidly, but did not reply.

The questioner motioned to one of the standing, who drew his sword. "East, the far east, Indus?" asked the questioner more forcefully.

The figure looked at the sword and then nodded. "India" he whispered again.

The questioner stood. Lying near the party was a flag, adorned with a giant golden star. The man stared at the flag absently. So many different people, coming so very far, but for what? he asked himself. He wiped his hands, dirty from the battle, on the edge of his blue tunic and turned back towards the castle, picking his way through the dead.


Behind him a scream was cut off abruptly.


At least they die like everyone else...

[phonicsmonkey]

Up on the battlements of the highest tower Jibril removed his helmet and wiped the sweat and blood from his brow, catching his breath finally and leaning against the granite to rest his aching muscles.

It had been in the darkest hours before dawn when the word came that the Caliph's agents had slain the guards and opened the iron portcullis at the main gate of the Castle Homs. The besieging army had been in a state of readiness for some three nights waiting for just this moment, and when the attack finally came it had been swift and merciless.

Now, as the first rays of the rising sun were seen on the horizon, as if sent by the Caliph himself from Baghdad to acclaim their victory, Jibril looked down upon the carnage in the courtyards and along the winding walls, where the Faris guards and Abna spearmen had wrought their bloody work against the sleepy and ill-prepared men of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

There, just outside the gate, amongst the piles of elephant dung, lay the armoured bodies of the Latin general and his bodyguard, who had bravely yet vainly sallied forth to meet the attackers. They had fought like lions, but had been cut down at the last, mobbed by the zealous jihadis and overpowered.

Now he looked out westwards, far into the distance, where in the dawn light he imagined he could see the dust cloud thrown up by the steeds of the Caliph's noble Seljuk allies, storming the Latin fort on the Orontes that represented the last line of King Baldwin's defence.

If all had gone according to plan, the Levant now lay wide open to the armies of Islam, and the end would come swiftly now for the infidel.

He rejoiced in his heart at the thought that the holy cities of Jerusalem and Damascus would now surely be reclaimed by the people of Islam - and if Baldwin were to see sense, and Allah willed it, perhaps he would relent without further bloodshed.

At his feet he became aware of a fallen Crusader, a spear in his back. In his dead hand he clutched a large and seemingly heavy leather pouch. Jibril was intrigued, and prised it from the dead man's grip.

Looking inside, he found 600 gold coins and a crude drawing of a boat...

[Askthepizzaguy]

AH! There's those elephants I ordered.

Since you're late, you don't get a tip. And you forgot my chicken wings.

[Redemption]

Furthest reaches of the Empire, beginning of August 1189


The fortress stood watch over the entrance to the Maeotian Lake, a gray tower encircled by a makeshift palisade. Surrounded by miles upon miles of featureless plains to the north and the unsoundable depths to the south, one could hardly find a more desolate place. It was a forlorn settlement, barely mentioned on most maps. In ancient times, Rome had built a colony here, and even before the Romans, the Greeks of Antiquity had built a thriving civilization on these shores. But the men who had assembled there had more pressing concerns then to reminisce on the glorious days of the past.

They were a handful of man from all over the Empire. Generals, judges, petty administrators, local governors, allied kings and tribal leaders; men from all walks of the hierarchy and from every ethnicity. They had all been invited to this remote locale to discuss the situation facing the Empire. A dire situation. Rome had never felt so tightly the icy grip of the furies grasping at her throat. The dreaded Caliph An-Nasir had carved his placed among the most terrifying enemies of Rome and easily ranked as an equal to Brennus, Hannibal, Boiorix, Chosroes, Alp Arslan and even mighty Attila, the Scourge of God. In the days of old, selfless heroes had risen to deliver Rome from her peril, but the age of heroes was long past. Today, it was up to men to turn the tides of darkness from the shores of civilization.

The man who had called them there stood a few steps away from the group. He was old. He had been old in the days of Megas Menuelos and time had not eased its hold on him since the great Basileos’ passing. The white hair of his beard and the deep scars covering his face said much about his experience both as a strategos and as an accomplished administrator. If something could be done for the Empire, it would be Ioannes Dukas who would see it through.

As the last of the guests found seats at the plain tables haphazardly drawn into the room for the meeting, their host turned to them, his piercing green eyes fixed in a resolute gaze.

“Noble friends, distinguished allies, we have seen first-hand the destruction wrought by the murderous armies of the Moslems. They have poured through the Levant, shattering the Crusaders aegis and burning every church along the way. They have once again invested the towns of Armenia Minor and brought with them misery and death. Where were the soldiers of Rome when their shields were needed to repulse the invaders? Where was her arm when women and children implored her help? When priests and nuns were herded in the streets and butchered by blood drunk Moslems? Where was our illustrious Basileos when news reached us of this unholy alliance of heathens bent on the destruction of glorious Rome? I will tell you where: he was in Konstantinopolis, oblivious to our peril, and there were no soldiers to defend our frontiers because in his blind hubris he left our defences in the hands of weaklings, incompetents and traitors! He disbanded our great armies and left our lands to stagnate! His complacence has cost us dearly and his continued reign only puts Rome closer to the pit of history from where none return.”

The attack on the Basileos was direct, but few were shocked. Word had spread for some time in the upper reaches of the Empire that Nevoulos was much to blame for the lack of preparation of Rome’s defences. A few heads nodded here and there, wearied glances going left and right. An Armenian prince raised his voice:

“What should we do? What can we do? We would need an army to march on Konstantinopolis but we do not even have the men to defend our homes!”

“His own guards loath him,” Ioannes replied. “With your support, we can restore the porphyrogenita to the Komnenos. If the blood of Aleksios and Manuelos still runs in their veins, surely they can lead our great nation back to its days of glory. Let us get rid of the wretched Nevoulos and raise the great armies he would not! Let us fight and die for Rome! For GLORY!!!”

The room erupted in cheers: “VICTORY OR DEATH! VICTORY OR DEATH! VICTORY OR DEATH!”