Of Destiny and Duty: A Galatian AAR

**Ariovistus Maximus** · 03-01-2010, 15:28

Hey guys!

I have just returned to this site after... quite some time. I get HTTP 500 errors each time I try, so I thought the site must be down again. I got a subscription update today though, so I thought I'd follow that link instead.

So I'm back and I will post updates soon.

**kpatterson14206** · 03-09-2010, 11:34

How did you manage to get the Audei into Galatia? Did you try a migration (really hard)? Or did you edit the files to start there (tell me please :D) ?

**Ariovistus Maximus** · 03-09-2010, 18:05

Welcome to the org kpatterson.

The EB mod gives Ancyra to the Aedui. For my purposes this was unnecessary though. I mostly created the situation with custom battles.

**Ariovistus Maximus** · 06-23-2010, 09:04

Oh my word I'm so bad! I've forgotten to update for like a century! Shame shame shame.

Well, let's just recap: things have been going quite slowly on the AAR front lately, but on top of that I rather carelessly forgot to post what I'd written here. So you'll at least get a few chapters all at once. So sorry about this folks. :( On a brighter note, I do believe I'm making a bit of a comeback, so don't despair for this AAR yet!

**Ariovistus Maximus** · 06-23-2010, 09:05

Chapter XXXIX - Duel

I spent the night in a miserable little hole in the ground; it reminded me of the cell in which old Timosthenes lay in captivity. At least the Archbishop had some measure of faith in me; all was not lost. I felt that God must yet sustain me; I could not survive the past three years for nothing.

In the morning, they dragged me back into the Archbishop’s chamber. Here he had assembled a group of holy men in order to come to a verdict on my case. But still it seemed that they could not decide whether I was God’s servant or the devil’s. It seemed that nothing I said could convince them.

Finally, they called me forward.

“John Kerrich, it is beyond the threshold of man’s ability to divine the truth or deceit of your speech. Therefore, it is the determination of this assembly that you shall face trial by combat. God shall fight for the righteous; if your heart is pure and your devotion true, He will fight for you.”

With that I was dragged back out, but this time they took me to an armory. They weren’t wasting any time. Never mind that I had spent a few days and nights in prison, with little to no food, or that I had been in flight from the Turks for months before, or that I had suffered the misery of Constantinople years before that. Such ills meant nothing; I was to face a strong, well-toned warrior of the church regardless of my condition. Indeed, I truly would need God’s help to accomplish such a feat.

The warm mist of sleep drained away as the guards shook me awake. Today I would fight. They fitted me with weapons and armor earlier. I had at least had a day in-between of exercise and proper nourishment; that would count for something, I hoped.

Warrior that I am, I have never understood trial by combat. I have always been taught to hone my skills and trust my own instinct. If I failed in this, I would die; I learned to accept this simple truth in Constantinople. But here I was thrust into combat basically unprepared, so that God could fight for me. Whether by His hand or mine the work was done, I shall never know.

I was given a few moments to fit myself and to pray. Pray I did; with every fiber of my being I petitioned God to sprinkle me with whatever grace was left for me. Then I arose, grasped my sword and shield firmly in hand, and went out to meet my adversary.

The sun overwhelmed me as I stepped out into the light; it took me a little while to regain my composure. There were a few clergymen and a small crowd of passers-by assembled at the scene. Finally, I came before the Church’s panel of officials, and the ceremony began.

“John Kerrich, by order of his Grace the Archbishop of Venice, and in the name of Almighty God, you are to face the trial of combat. May God grant mercy to His true child. It is only fair, master Kerrich, that you know that the others who were tried with you have met their deaths on this very field. I pray that you were not party to their sin. Have you any final words?”

Fine words and pretty speeches would do nothing for me here. Instead I shook my head, and steeled myself for battle.

“In that case,” rumbled the cleric, “Let the fight begin!”

No sooner had I turned around than I saw my opponent charging straight for me. It was all I could do to dive out of his way and avoid being crushed before the fight even started. I waved my sword wildly as I tried to get up, hoping to hold the enemy back just long enough to get up. But this man would not be dissuaded; he came at me again and again.

I knew in an instant how an anvil must feel as it is battered by the hammer. The Church’s swordsman was relentless. After what seemed like an eternity of perpetual blows, I caught a blow square on my shield and shoved him off. I felt the old rage of battle – which I had happily not experienced for many months – seep back into my mind. I remembered Godwin; I struck a blow for him. I remembered those cursed Turks. I struck a blow against them. This single adversary became an effigy upon which to pour out many years of pent-up wrath, for oh-so-many things.

I managed to catch a good glimpse of my opponent. He was certainly a servant of the Church, as I had been. He was equipped, and seemed to have been trained, in the Templar style. Furthermore, he was no amateur. The Church had certainly seen fit to ensure that my survival would be the result of God’s hand.

We went on. I managed to hold my own; even I was surprised how my fighting instinct returned. I suppose that such force does not easily leave a person after years of nigh-perpetual combat and strain.

My instinct may have been intact, and my mind may have been fit, but my body was neither. I simply could not keep up sustained fighting. I had to do something. My mind journeyed back to the days at Constantinople; I had an idea.

As the Templar swung another mighty blow, I ducked. The blade whizzed over my head. Moving quickly, I side-stepped and struck a blow at his legs. Surprised, the soldier toppled to the ground. I moved back and caught my breath.

My adversary was certainly a veteran soldier, but he evidently had not fought in the Near East. The Arab soldier was nothing if not mobile; I remember how I had very nearly lost my life, early on in my first campaign, to such tactics. The Templar was visibly disgruntled by them as well.

Another memory flashed to mind: the Galatians! Those fierce warriors certainly knew how to intimidate the enemy. Perhaps, I thought, I might take a lesson from them as well. The enemy was surprised and confused; next it was time to intimidate.

Summoning all the energy I could, I whirled my sword over my head, and with voice booming I rushed like a madman at the foe. I heard a satisfying snap as the Templar’s wooden shield gave way to the force of my almost-superhuman cut. My enemy stumbled backward and crashed to the ground. When he got back up, I could see that fear had worked its way into his mind amongst the surprise and confusion. Clearly I was not behaving as any European soldier should; he had no idea how to counter this new fusion of fighting styles.

At that point, I knew that the day may yet be mine. Again I picked a Galatian tactic. Moving in with my left hand instead of my right, I pumped my shield into the Templar’s face. His head snapped back and he tripped backwards. Pivoting back in the other direction, I crashed my sword into his side. He very nearly flipped through the air on his way to the ground. To his credit as a soldier, his sword never left his hand. Now it was he who swung his sword blindly through the air. I still had to be careful; I had seen many a soldier die by the erratic thrusts of a dazed enemy. But I had also killed many dazed enemies myself.

I bashed the Templar down one final time by a swipe with my shield. In the fury of the moment, I yanked off my helmet and flung it into the dust. I was prepared for the final blow. It was then that I remembered my surroundings. I noticed that the Archbishop’s guards had tensed. It occurred to me that there were most likely a number of archers with bow drawn down upon me at that very moment. I noticed also that my opponent was unconscious; that would be good enough. Standing over him, I kicked him over to demonstrate that he was out of the fight. The thing was done.

My sword slipped from my hand; a cloud of dust flew into the sky. The red haze of battle cleared from my eyes, and I adjured God that it be cleared for the very last time. I had seen enough of war; I swore that I should live out my days in peace and harmony ever after my arrival home.

**Ariovistus Maximus** · 06-23-2010, 09:06

Chapter XL - Horrors

“Traitor! TRAITOR!” The seemingly feeble old man’s eyes glared with a furious fire. “You are a dog; worse than a dog, for you betray your master and your own people! You lick the feet of the vile tyrant-King of Pontus! You have neither the honor nor the sense of the lowest hound in the streets.”

Kyros was speechless. His mind was overwhelmed by the severity of the elder’s accusation, and his spirit was sapped by the contemptuous stares of the villagers nearby. What could he say? He hardly knew what to think himself; through the most bizarre set of circumstances he had become Mithridates’ representative in Galatia.

How could he make these people understand? How could he explain to them that the old ways had been defeated; that only the adaptive would survive? What choice did he have but to obey and serve?

But the worst thing; the reality dragged his heart into a bottomless pit of despair, was the realization that the old man was right.

Passers-by began to gather at the sound of the old man’s shrill cry. Soon there was a crowd. It was a crowd that had seen its whole world crumble. A crowd that wanted revenge but had failed to overwhelm the Pontics with their rage. They saw this vile turncoat as a vessel for their wrath. They began to close in.

Kyros shot out of his cot like an arrow from a taut bowstring. Fairly flying through the air out of fright, he slammed into the wall of his quarters. Artan appeared only seconds later with sword drawn; he urgently checked the windowsill and corners of the room, but found no enemy. He saw only his brother writhing in pain; searing pain from his fall and an intense, burning pain in his mind.

Minutes later Kyros was still struggling to breath, lying in a pool of sweat, unsure which vision was reality and which was dream. Even Artan was shaken; he kept on his guard, afraid that some dark spirit had possessed his brother.

Finally Artan dared to approach Kyros. “What is wrong, brother? You look as if you have fought with the very beasts of the underworld.

Kyros clutched him with a desperate strength that Artan had never felt before. “I am a traitorous dog! The demons themselves would spurn my company. I serve those who have reduced my homeland to rubble. I report to a man who has slaughtered countless numbers of my countrymen. I aid the ones who murdered my own mother!”

Kyros’ eyes were white and glazed; his face was pale and almost yellow. He shook uncontrollably. Artan wanted desperately to help him. He was afraid that his brother might die, yet he had no idea what he could do. No words of comfort came to his tongue. He had no reassuring wisdom to give, like his father did. He could not put the matter to rest in his own mind; he had stayed awake much of the night for fear that his own doubts would haunt him in his sleep.

All at once Artan felt a compassion for his brother that he had not sensed for years. Kyros was not the stuffy, cynical academician he had believed; his brother was a thoughtful, feeling man with many of the insecurities that he also felt. Surely Kyros could not die now; he could not give up hope just when Artan had finally discovered the real person inside.

Artan could only hold his quivering brother and hope that once, just this once, the gods would see fit to grant him his wish.