The Wolfpack: A Scipii Campaign

[Mysterium]

Welcome

This is a long-running, oft-stumbling, resurrected first attempt at an AAR. Given that it's an RTW campaign, and I'm not nearly as good at that as I used to be, there should be plenty of foibles. Feel free to read and comment, feedback is highly appreciated. I am constantly trying to improve my writing, so everything helps, good and bad. It can even be as simple as 'I was bored here,' since the reader's reaction is paramount, I think, to the process.

So, thanks for reading, and without further adieu . . .


Rome, 270 B.C.


The lion slammed an enormous paw down on the hunk of flesh and, after a great snap of its jaws, wrenched back its maned head to tear away a piece. Its fangs were bared at intervals as it gobbled up the meat. It swallowed, threw back its head, and roared.

The screams of several ladies echoed around the peristylium. The silence following the beast’s bellow and the ladies’ screams was filled by laughter; nervous from some, good-natured from others. The great beast’s handlers dug their heels in and dragged against the chain, pulling the lion to one side of the large enclosure in the center of the courtyard. It wouldn’t do to have the beast eat its fill, for then how would the guests arriving later be entertained?

“Quite the spectacle, isn’t it?” spoke an aged lady, holding her goblet of watered wine. She glanced over at her companion and, noticing his detachment as only a long-married woman can, repeated herself more insistently.

The man, dressed in a fine toga and also holding a large cup of wine, shook himself from his reverie. “Excuse my, my dear Metella. I’ve run off after my thoughts like a shepherd after his flock. You were saying?”

“It’s of little importance. It matters not. But what is on your mind, lord?” She stepped closer to stand next to him, facing into the courtyard where hundred of optimates – the aristocracy of Rome – were gathered in grape-like clusters, chattering and socializing.

“Nothing, nothing, my dear.” Cornelius glanced sideways and saw a look that meant his statement would be neither believed, nor tolerated. “Well . . . I have heard something. Some rumblings from the Senate.” Metella looked alarmed, and he went on quickly, “Oh, nothing bad. Something good in fact. But I’ve just been pondering it for these last few hours, and wondering what is to be done about it.”

“And if it will even come to pass?” Metella ventured. His smile told her she had been correct. “My dear Scipio. If it is to be, it will be. And you doubt the blessings of the gods far too often to start doubting the blessings of the mortals around you.”

Cornelius acknowledged her with a nod, then noticed an aged senator working his way among the clusters of the elite. Senator Claudius stepped towards a circle of people and laid his hand on a lady’s arm, exchanging a quick word with the group and eliciting a polite laugh. Whether they were amused or not was immaterial, for he was the host, and must – of course – be indulged. It soon became plain that he was walking towards the Scipii in the corner.

As he caught Cornelius’ eye and smiled, obviously beginning his final approach, the lion gave another grumbling, petulant roar, and Claudius flinched in exaggerated fright. After recovering himself with another smile, he stepped up to Cornelius and Metella. “Honestly, I don’t know why I’m wasting a perfectly good doe on that beast. I might as well eat the venison myself, and turn the lion out to find its own game!”

Cornelius and Metella dutifully laughed and the conversation wound its way through various compliments and pleasantries. Soon enough, Claudius begged Metella’s forgiveness and led Cornelius away, into the house. They chatted as they moved up the stairs and soon the Pater of the Scipii found himself out on a tablinum – a small balcony, overlooking the central peristylium.

“Do you know why we’re speaking, Scipio?” Claudius asked.

“I have . . . heard a few things, Senator. But only a few.”

Claudius chuckled to himself. “And even if you did know, it would never to do reveal the skill of your sources by telling me everything you’ve learned. You’ve always been a fair hand at these games we play, Scipio. Never quite as good as someone who’s made a life out of our intrigues and infighting, but for one who’s spent as much time dealing with matters outside our fair city as you have, well . . .” Claudius trailed off, then collected himself. “A fair hand, as I say.”

“Thank you, Senator.” Cornelius wasn’t sure if thanks were in order, but he little knew what else to say.

“What do you see when you look into my courtyard, Scipio?” Cornelius stared down at the gather optimates of Rome and thought of them, and of what Claudius could be hinting at. “Besides the lion?” Claudius laughed. “I see the greats of Rome, Claudius. I see those who decide her direction, and who provide for her safety, and maintain her people.”

“A worthy thing to see, Cornelius. I see a great beast surrounded by lesser beings.” He turned to look at Cornelius. “How can they be lesser, you say, if they’ve caught it and caged it? No matter, it is a great beast. And it is Rome. Surrounded by lesser beings. Can you not feel it, Scipio? You, with your whole family behind you and that knowledge burning in your gut. Is this not the time for Rome? Should her greatness not be felt throughout the world? The Scipii have been among the optimates from the founding of Rome. Yours is a great and noble family, and none can contend otherwise.”

“Though some try,” Cornelius spoke with just a trace of bitterness.

“They shall not, not anymore. Let us be blunt, Cornelius. The Scipii control Capua, no?”

Cornelius knew this to be true, but knew also that Campania was full of those who did not know it to be true. “Yes, Senator. I believe that my will can be made true throughout Campania.”

“And, of course, Mesenna was entrusted to you. The Senate would ask something of the Scipii, Cornelius. And we know that your family is great enough - and noble enough - to achieve this. Will you show your loyalty to the people of Rome, Cornelius?”

“In any way I can, Senator.”

“Take Syracuse. Take it for Rome, and for the Scipii. The Greeks are weakening, and Sicilia must belong to us.” Here, then, was the test. Claudius knew of the love the Scipii held for Greeks and Greek culture. Would Cornelius’ reverence to them be more than his reverence toward the senate?

“By the blood of the Scipii it shall be made Roman, Senator.”

Claudius gripped his shoulder. “Excellent, Cornelius. Excellent.” The two worked their way back into the throng and spoke words of parting to each other. Cornelius saw the wife of his eldest son and motioned her to him.

“Artistia, please send Julianus to me as soon as ever you see him.”

“Yes, Pater,” she replied, weaving her way into the crowd. Cornelius found Metella in a crowd near the place he’d left her, and he joined the throng until his son Julianus arrived. The four then moved into a corner.

“Julianus, we’ve been given a task by the Senate. This is to be the making of the Scipii.”

“What task?” Metella asked.

“To take Syracuse by Roman arms. Do you see? The Senate sees us as worthy. As great. As first among the optimates. We must prove them right.”

[Mouzafphaerre]

.
You definitely have the talent! So much of a good story to be written from a dry message box saying "take Syracuse in n turns and the Senate will reward you with labaluba..." The ambient details, the lion...

Excellent.


.

[Mysterium]

Thanks very much, sir. I've played the game through taking all of Sicily and have taken notes on it; I plan on writing through to the end of that (with some other details in there) and seeing where it takes me.

[Ludens]

I second Mouzafphaerre's words.

Looking forward to more.

[Mysterium]

DISCLAIMER

History Park is the idea of Director, the author of "Who Want to be Napoleon?" and other brilliant AARs on the Europa Universalis forums. For his work, and more on History Park, please point your browsers to:

http://www.europa-universalis.com/fo...ad.php?t=52885

Without further adieu, Introduction II.

History Park, History Assembly Sublease Division

“. . . first among the optimates. We must prove them right.” The scene froze and slowly faded, and the lights in the conference room came up. Men and women blinked in the retreating darkness and looked back towards the head of the table. Suits, ties, and blazers were readjusted and water was sipped as each person switched himself from passive watcher to active participator. One man stretched luxuriously but then grinned sheepishly when his hands hit the wall just behind his chair. The massive conference table was ludicrously large to have been shoved as it was into a temporary double-wide trailer.

“So that, ladies and gentlemen,” spoke the table’s head, “is the opening sequence for the Scipii faction.”

“Nice cutscene,” one of the suits mentioned. “Good rendering.”

The man at the head of the table smirked, and shook his head. “Not a cutscene, Charlie. That’s in-game footage.” The other suits looked incredulous, and the man held up a hand. “It’s not all quite like that, but that’s just a sample. The History Park AI’s can do that sort of rendering on the fly, and while our AI’s can’t, we’ve got them learning the ropes. They’re not as powerful, but they should be able to actively render at least that many people in at least that complex a setting, once we’ve got them installed and used to their jobs.”

“And what about the battles, Ian?” another man asked. He was the de facto head of marketing, and blood and thunder were his highest priorities. “Can we only have a hundred characters on screen during those?”

“Of course not,” Ian answered. He wished for the hundredth time that another of the tech geeks had social skills, because then he wouldn't be the one to have to interface with the people with the checkbooks. He shifted in his chair. “The algorithms that my boys and I have designed for the battle sequences mean that the computers don’t have to think up that many characters individually. An entire century of troops is treated as a single unit with multiple appendages – basically – until the need for those troops to be independent arises. And with all the battles we’ve dumped into the computers, they could mix and max actual encounters for decades before anyone noticed a repetition.”

“And how long is a century of troops?” another man asked.

“How many,” a woman corrected. “It’s eighty or so, depending on officers.” All eyes turned towards her, and the conversation shifted its focus. Ian breathed easier.

“That’s correct, Ms. Sarna,” Ian answered. Good head on those shoulders, Ian thought. Good shoulders, too.

“So, Ian,” she continued, “you mentioned a problem with the Scipii faction?”

Ian swallowed, squared himself, and answered. “Yes ma'am. The professor from Princeton has backed out. Something about not compromising his academic integrity, or somesuch. Either way, we don’t have a player for the Scipii faction anymore.”

“With less than a week until the game opens, this is not welcome news, Ian,” Ms. Sarna understated. “All the other factions are prepared?”

“Yes, the rest of them have already moved in with their teams. They’re living in History Park hotels, or the temporary housing we’ve set up near the actual simulators.”

“And Princeton was the last of our legitimate professors, no? Well, perhaps we’ll have to take a step down in prestige. Undoubtedly there someone out there interested in Roman history who’d be willing to take on the challenge. But it does seem a shame that one of our three Roman factions should be played by a weaker contender. We all know who needs to win, here.”

The advertising exec spoke up again. “Speaking of which, why again are there only three Roman factions? Given the amount of infighting there actually was, I would think that three is a bit small. Not counting the Senate, of course. I mean, with even one more color scheme, the marketing possibilities would open up quite a bit more. Five lines of action figures as opposed to four . . . lunch boxes . . . towels . . . not to mention the gaming spin-offs, movies . . .”

“Yes, Arnold, we’re well aware. But three was our decision earlier, and it is still a good one. Any more and infighting would become a problem. And we’re providing human opponents to play the other factions so that competition between Roman clans is lessened. So your lunch boxes will have to be constrained to simply four. And I’m sure the Gallic options will sell very well in Paris right now, what with that Inner Child fashion revolution underway.”

The table chuckled, but was interrupted by the squeal of an incoming phone call. Ian begged forgiveness and answered it. His secretary spoke. “Sir, phone call from Jones.”

“A little busy now, Heather.”

“Jones said it was about the Scipio problem. He’s got an answer.”

Ian glanced at Ms. Sarna, who nodded. He pressed a few buttons, the lights dimmed, and the screen at the end of the table lit up with Jones’ pleasantly disreputable face.

“Hello Ian. Ms. Sarna. Various other people,” he added. His tone was the perfect blend of mocking and disrespect, irreverent without insult. “I’ve got a solution.”

“Spill it, Jonesy,” Ian stated.

“Well, do you remember the competition we sponsored a few months back? The essay on Rome in all the public schools, ten major metro areas, something like that?”

“Big tax write-off,” one of the suits chimed in.

“Yes, what about it?” Ms. Sarna prompted.

“Why not use the winner?” Jones stated. A thoughtful silence filled the table. “I mean, I know it’s a kid, but why not? Did any of you read the essay?” Confused mumbling filled the table; the class hadn’t done its homework. “It’s brilliant. Talks about the Via Appia from Rome to Capua. Talks about Roman versus Carthaginian naval power. Talks about military strategy, the reforms of Marius. Hell, he’s even been published online, a whole paper on how they should have dealt with Hannibal. He’s not just Roman, he might as well be a Scipio. Everything about Sicilia, Greek culture’s impact on Romanism, everything.”

“And he’s how old?” asked another.

“Thirteen. Just about to finish his freshman year in high school.”

“And you propose to put him up against professors and graduate students who, among them, have written,” the suit glanced at the papers in front of him, “two hundred and eight dissertations on ancient history?”

The table chuckled again while Jones baldly answered, “Yup.”

“Who would be his assistants? These professors brought their own teams, and you know that we’re running the game twenty four hours a day. He would need help.”

“We can work that out. Maybe get him some advisors. Besides, we’re planning on running the game for how long? Two years, maybe? This kid’s only got until the end of summer.” Jones continued, seeing that a few of the crowd were wavering. “We tell people that this is just temporary, tell him that too, and we get some stuffed shirt in here to pick up the pieces when it’s through. Good PR, it’ll follow up on the contest we sponsored. I think everyone wins here. ‘Cept maybe whoever inherits the Scipioes when he’s done.

“Scipii,” Ms. Sarna unconsciously corrected. “Jones, Ian, make it happen. I’m sure you’ll be able to solve any problem that might arise. Call me with the details in forty-eight hours.” She stood up, awkwardly since her chair couldn’t slide all the way back from the table, and said, “Gentleman, good day. We’ll meet again on Wednesday.”

[Mouzafphaerre]

.


I remember a Yul Brynner movie. Let me look it up...

Westworld

A[n] amusement park for rich vacationers. The park provides its customers a way to live out their fantasies through the use of robots that provide anything they want. Two of the vacationers choose a wild west adventure. However, after a computer breakdown, they find that they are now being stalked by a rogue robot gun-slinger.

*shudders*
.

[Mysterium]

Heh. Actually, Director, HistoryPark's inventor, is currently writing one just about like that. Someone goes into the VR of the computer, the computer goes haywire, and now everyone else outside has to bring the game to a successful conclusion to get him back. Kinda Tron meets Monte Cristo.

[Ciaran]

Fascinating idea and a good opening, too. This promises to be interesting, so keep up posting.

[The Stranger]

cool story

[Mysterium]

Thanks, all. I'm trying to move through the backstory and get the two plots set up, so I can get back some Roman action. Coming up soon, I promise.

[Mysterium]

Weston, Massachusetts

“Uh, mom, can I talk to you for a second?” Trevor asked hesitantly.

“Sure honey, what is it?” Trevor’s mother wiped her hands on the front of her apron and sat at the kitchen table.

“Well, you remember how I wrote that extracurricular paper a few months ago? The one on Rome?” She hadn’t been too happy about it at the time. Trevor’s obsession with Rome was something his mother frowned on, if only because he spent all his time on the forums chatting with other history buffs, rather than doing anything that was actually 'social' as she saw it.

“Yes, dear . . .”

“Well, there’s a man here who says that I won a contest and so I get to go to HistoryPark and play some game where I’m a Roman.” Trevor simplified the statement, because past attempts to explain things like the economic and social impact of the slave trade on Roman agriculture had met with a less than stellar intellect, so he’d started dumbing himself down.

“He’s here?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jones said, walking in and sticking out his hand. “Jones, Mrs. Butler, pleased to meet you.” He seated himself at the table without being invited, turning the chair backwards and dropping into it.

“And . . . you’re from HistoryPark?” Mrs. Butler was already mentally backpedaling, and Jones wasn’t the sort to ease off.

“No, ma’am, I’m not. I’m from the History Assembly, a different group altogether.” Jones explained that the History Assembly was in no way affiliated with HistoryPark, but that HistoryPark had been kind enough to lease them some space, facilities, and a few amenities to undertake their project. The project was a sort of study, involving professors and graduate students who’d studied history from around the time of the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, and they were going to re-enact, as precisely as possible, the exact conditions at the beginnings of Rome. And then see where it led them.

As part of the prize for winning the essay contest, Trevor was being invited down to play one of the factions, just for the summer, mind you, until he had to come back to school. He’d be in HistoryPark, under constant supervision, playing against other human opponents in the simulators they’d set up down there. Of course, all of this was being televised; they’d leased three channels and five more pay-per-view on a local cable company down there, and quite a few other companies were planning on carrying the battles and some highlights. Plus, with Internet rights, there was going to be a little stipend for Trevor and his family, because of his participation in the whole affair.

Mrs. Butler, slightly dizzy, asked, “And when would this start?”

“Well, the whole thing gets rollin’ in a little less than a week, but that’s kickoff, mind you, so Trevor here would need to get there ASAP, just so he can get settled in and acquainted with things. My bosses told me to spare no expense, so if you just give the OK, I can have him on a plane outta here in less than two hours. Maybe less, depending on the traffic on 95, mind you.”

Mrs. Butler looked at Trevor’s silently beaming face and caved almost instantly. “Well, I guess we’ll call and cancel summer camp . . .” she said. Trevor bounded off his seat and threw his arms around her neck.


En Route to the Boston Airport

“So, I get how many people?” Trevor asked. Jones was weaving through traffic in a way that was sure to excite Trevor and, had his mother been there, cause a relatively large coronary.

“Well, the rest of them professor types are allowed to bring up to five assistants, and any more they have to pay out of pocket. Now, mind you, some of them are doing that. The Gauls are being led by a Frenchman who seems to be out to prove something, so he got a few grants and he’s got no less than twelve people with him. Although I think one of them’s a chef and another’s his valet. But anyway, yeah, you can have five. Any idea who?”

“I think so. I’ll ask some friends from the forums on Rome that I visit a lot. And you said there are battle sequences in this game?” Jones nodded. “I’ll have to bring Carl and Mike, then. No one fights like them.”

“And they are?” Jones asked.

“Oh, friends from school. Wargamers.”

Oh, lord, Jonesy thought. We’re talking about a multi-million dollar research project/marketing scheme, and he’s treating like a field trip. Ah well, they were gonna fire me sooner or later.

Trevor nodded to himself and turned back to the laptop spread in front him. He was wandering through the forums on SPQR, his usual haunt online. The webzine published by SPQR was the medium he’d used to publish five of his seven papers, and he spent most days arguing some point or another with folks in the Forum. He spotted what he was looking for, a post in response to one of his major points, by SantaMonica

“You’ve got a good point about the Punic Wars, TRover,” he read. “But I think you’re overlooking the fact that . . .” he skimmed her response, remembering what it was that had impressed him about her analysis. She’d be perfect, if she could come. He fired a private message to her, explaining what was happening, and giving the phone number for History Assembly’s offices in HistoryPark.

He looked through and fired off a few more PMs, one to another friend X5270 who agreed with most of his points, someone named Kreative who knew a lot more about Carthage than he did, and a last to SenAble. SenAble was smart, really smart, but always cut people down. It was rare when he couldn’t find a hole in someone’s thinking, but Trevor had to admit that without him, the paper never would have won the contest.

“Well, we’ll see if any of them get back to me.”

“Yup, we shall see,” said Jonesy.


HistoryPark

“Well, kiddo. Here we be,” Jones said. The pair had just exited the high-speed tram from the beachfront hotel and were waiting before the main gates of HistoryPark. Trevor has spent the entire plane ride from Los Angeles to Mexico City with his face pressed to the glass, but the one moment when the pilot had mentioned HistoryPark off the left wing and dipped the plane, all he’d seen was lush jungle and a few seaside resorts. Millions of dollars, minimum impact. And the high-speed train from Mexico City had ducked underground for the final approach, keeping its decidedly modern profile out of the way of anything HistoryPark might be doing. Trevor had been ridiculously excited and starved for even a glimpse of his prize the entire trip down.

“Wow. It’s all, just so . . . well . . .”

“Alive?” Jones asked. The Park was one of the few things that Jonesy still got at all choked up about.

“I was gonna say big,” Trevor answered. “I’m just really excited. I’ve always wanted to come here.” He darted over to the nearest information kiosk and picked up one of the beautiful, glossy, free brochures. He read:

The Park is a vast, sprawling complex on the Pacific coast of Mexico. Visitors most commonly arrive by high-speed train from Mexico City or Houston, Texas. No aircraft are allowed to overfly the Park – it would spoil the re-enactments of the battles of Gettysburg and Waterloo to mention only two – except for special events. Like the annual visit of the Richtofen Flying Circus, or the PanAm Clipper cruise. Please understand that while the Park is NOT politically correct, children are present… so some things will have to be presented carefully. Now in the adult areas… well, that’s different.

It is a strange and wonderful place, this Park, the blending of high technology (like workable holography and animatronic robots) with showmanship, flair and the urgent need to sell fast food and souvenirs. It is not finished, and perhaps it never can be. The very best ideas come from the visitors themselves, and people who contribute always receive free admissions.

Oh, a strange and wonderful place indeed. Spend the night aboard the Titanic at the Seven Seas Hotel, dine on the moon, then visit the sculpture garden whose statues move when you aren’t looking. Surf the best waves in the world – five classic beaches side by side – and tote a rifle through the three days of Gettysburg. Or wander over to Middle Earth, but you won’t take anything from Gollum if you’re wise. Go by the Waterloo battlefield and museum and say hello to Napoleon… he’s lonely, and appreciates the company. The newest additions to the Park are the giant ‘Mongol Coaster’ over in the amusement park section, and the gaming areas.

- Director Porter, HistoryPark

“So, I do get some time to myself, don’t I?” Trevor asked.

“What, kid, sick a my company?” Jonesy joked. Although, in truth, Jones would’ve been sick of himself by that point. Trevor had been pulled from his home with just a week to go before the game and instead of rushing him straight to the Park, History Assembly had jumped straight into Jones’ public relations ideas with a terrifying zeal. Trevor had found himself spun down to the Assembly’s media complex near Universal Studios and had been made over into a Roman history wunderkind. His cheeks had been pinched so much they practically squeaked with fright when they saw another adult coming, and his hair had been tousled into an impenetrable birds’ nest. And he was a bit confused as to the date, too; History Assembly had insisted on pre-recording many interviews with him, just in case, and he’d already had to monkey for the cameras. They had his reactions to good diplomatic news, bad diplomatic news, winning a siege, losing a siege, winning a province . . . he could still hear the horrible cameraman parroting “Okay, now, you won, but lost a lotta guys, gimme that one!” And he hadn’t even set foot inside the Park yet.

"No, Jonesy, not that. You’re fun,” Trevor beamed up at Jones, who melted a bit but tried not to show it, “it’s just that I’ve never been here, and I wanna look around. Get a feel for the place. Get shot at over at Gettysburg. That kinda stuff.”

“The teenage guys always go straight to Gettysburg,” Jones said knowingly.

“Always?”

“Okay, sometimes right after the Mongol Coaster. But always in the first day.” Jones reached down, picked up the one backpack Trevor had been carrying since Massachusetts, and started toward a hut to the side of the main gates. “Special entrance,” he said. “Well, y’see, kid, we’ve gotta get you settled first. You might have some time during the game. But we’ve only got a few hours until the introductory dinner, then the game starts at noon tomorrow, so we’ve gotta set you up first, right? You understand, neh?”

Trevor looked slightly crestfallen, but rallied admirably. “Yeah, alright. Let’s see the game.”

[Ludens]

Very good, Mysterium. I'd reminds me very much of Blood on Simulated Blades by Wargamer Scott. It had much the same motif. Sadly, it was never finished, I suppose because the writer got bogged down by describing the events outside the simulation.

But anyway: very good, and I especially like the personal touch. Please continue!

[Ciaran]

I´m really curious where this is going.
History Assembly, nice touch

[Mysterium]

Thanks very much, Ludens. It's an interesting conundrum; we all play the game and know the rules, but in a narrative like this, ther'es not much chance to mention the actual game mechanics. Seems like having someone playing the game, in whatever way, just makes it that much easier. And easier to gloss over turns, too . . . click end turn a few times in the modern day story, and I can jump back in whenever I want.

And Ciaran, I'm curious too! I've got game notes for a while yet, but no real idea as to the story. At this moment, I've only got the next few posts thought out. Sort of like where History Assembly came from; I wrote it before thinking about it, then realized I liked it. Gift from the Gods, I suppose.

I'll be getting back to Rome soon, and there blood and thunder coming within a few posts, I promise. All of this is just an excuse for me to write battle sequences, really . . .

Thanks for reading, and thanks for posting!

[Mysterium]

Deck of H.M.S. Victory

“. . . and so, on the eve of this – if you’ll pardon me – historic occasion,” a pause for strangely-absent laughter, “ahem, it is once again my great and dear pleasure to welcome you all here to HistoryPark. We again thank our hosts for their graciousness in allowing us the use of some of their facilities, and with hopes that the relationship between HistoryPark and the History Assembly will grow and be fruitful, I’d like to introduce Director Porter!”

Muted applause from a crowd that was stuffy and reserved to begin with, made all the more so by long-winded dronings from too many suits. Had it been necessary to read the curriculum vitae for every professor involved with the project? Ian thought not. Another point in the kid’s favor, anyway; no needless backstory. He glanced over from his own big-wigs’ table to the kid’s table a few gunports away on the crowded deck. He seemed to be enjoying himself. None of his party was present, tho, and the place-holders they’d gotten were all from the Frenchman’s overly-large command team. Command being a term used loosely. Word around the simulators was that he’d brought a tailor.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, again, welcome! I do hope you like your surroundings. I apologize for the slight crowding, for although the Victory is truly a peerless ship and she’s currently cleared for whatever action might come her way, eighteen tables and a four course meal aren’t exactly what she was designed for.” A chuckle from the crowd that was warming to the man standing over them on the fo’csle. “It is my privilege to complete your welcome and to begin a bit of your training. Everything I will tell you has, of course, been provided to you in the packets you were sent upon accepting this little challenge. And since professors make the best students,” the bone-dry sarcasm was lost on only a few of the academicians, “I’m sure you’ve all studied them extensively.

“As to the particular rules, those I won’t touch on. Too dry. However, I’d like to explain something about the rigs you’ll be using for the game. We here at HistoryPark have been hosting games almost since the Park’s opening, and we’ve gotten pretty good at it. The simulators you’ll be using are in their fourth generation now, and you can expect great things out of them, without disappointment. The greatest thing yet, my friends, is VR.

A faint murmur ran through the crowd. “After a few trials, we’ve worked out the kinks, and we’re happy to present you with the full range of Virtual Reality options in this gaming – pardon me, research – experience. For battles, you now have the ability to inhabit the body of a particular character for the length of the battle. This is the only thing not included in your packet, so let me make a few strategic points perfectly clear.

“One. Some of you speak Latin! Some of you don’t. This is fine. You may speak in whatever vernacular, whatever language you wish, and the computer will pick up your intent just fine, transmitting that to your soldiers. Communication won’t be a problem.

“Two. Running a battle on horseback and running it from a couch are two completely separate things. Expect limitations when running it from a couch that simulate the limitations you would find on the battlefield. If your general doesn’t know about something, you won’t either.

“Three. You may wish to inhabit the body of someone other than your general. That’s fine, and you can still order your men about, but you’ll be ordering them through your general. Don’t expect them to react to you as they would to your general.

“Four. On that subject, it might be a good idea not to be your general. First of all, a fatal blow is fatal to your general, if not to you. If you don’t think your riding skills are up to snuff, best to stay off the field. And while you won’t be killed, you will certainly feel the pain. It’s virtual, but it’s reality.

“Now that I’ve scared you sufficiently, allow me to propose a toast.” Director Porter raised his goblet high, and called out “Roma Victa!”



HistoryPark, History Assembly Sublease Division


Trevor walked across the baking asphalt of what had been - until recently - a parking lot towards the large temporary building that housed his simulator. The Scipii crest was emblazoned in the clapboard above the door. Trevor walked over, mounted the iron grillwork that was already blazing in the Mexican morning sun, and pushed open the door.

He strolled inside and was instantly blind. It was dark, dark and cold, and he could hear a lot of noise but no distinct sound. He had a moment of sheer panic before he heard “Trev! Over here!” and turned his head. It had sounded like Carl’s voice. “You alright?”

“Well, yeah, I’m blind, but I’m okay.” There was a click, a hum, and suddenly an entire wall of screens lit up, all glowing a faint blue that illuminated the room. Trevor found himself standing in a room of roughly square proportions. He was midway along one wall, while the entire opposite wall was – from head-height to the ceiling – a solid mass of flat panel screens, each glowing faintly in readiness. To his left and right, two raised, square platforms; one was obviously a lounge with its tables and couches, and the other held six deep, padded leather recliners with full VR rigs waiting above the headrests like hair dryers in an old hair salon. Each platform had a railing and was a few feet above the floor of the gaming area. Directly in front of Trevor a set of stairs ran the few feet down to the gaming floor, which seemed to itself be an enormous flat panel. He trotted down the stares and looked at it, but realized it wasn’t a screen at all. He gaped upward at the hundreds of tiny projectors creating an overlapping image on the floor. He didn’t make a shadow on the image when he walked on it, and he glanced left and right, seeing more wall-mounted projectors. As he looked, it changed to the crest of the Scipii faction, and each of the flat panels bore the image as well.

To his left, accessible from the VR area and at the height of the screens, two technicians sat in a long booth, surrounded by the ambient glow of electronics. To his right, mirroring the technician’s booth, was a small kitchen with a door off the back that bore a unisex restroom sticker. Looks like they expected him to stay put for a while. With the kitchen and the tech booth raised, the floor was hundreds of square feet of screen, and with the addition of the flat panels in front of him, there was an amazing amount of information that could be displayed. And an amazing amount of energy that was being used. That explained the frigid temperature.

“Hey, Trevor! Wake up!” Trevor spun around and looked at Carl and Mike, who were laughing at him from the railing of the lounge. “You zoned out for a bit there,” Mike said.

“Nice place you got here,” spoke another man from the lounge area.

Trevor trotted back up the stairs and stuck his hand out. “I don’t believe we’ve met. You are . . ?”

“SenAble,” the man said, shaking Trevor’s hand. “You can call me Henry, or Hank, or whatever you’d like. I got your message on the SPQR forum, and decided to answer the call.”

“Oh, right,” Trevor said. He had dim recollections of deciding on his last two assistants while in the middle of the media blitz in Hollywood. “Glad you could be here.” Well, that was a lie. There were any number of the SPQR folks he would rather have had, but SenAble – Henry – would keep him on his toes.

“It’s just luck that I’m not a real adult.” Trevor looked a bit puzzled. “No job to go to during the summer. I’m a freelance writer, so I had the time to kill.”

“Ah, great,” Trevor answered noncommittally. A young woman, quite pretty but rather stern in demeanor, stood up from the couch and came over.

“Monica. SantaMonica. I am pleased to meet you.” She spoke with a slight Castilian accent, hardly noticeable, and carried herself gracefully. “I am, of course, a real adult,” she glanced mockingly at Henry, “but as a schoolteacher, I too have no commitments in the summer.”

“Well, glad to have you all here,” Trevor said. “You’ve all read the packets, I take it? Well, then, let’s get down to business and figure out just how we’re going to bring about the glory of Rome, eh?”



Capua, Scipii home


Cornelius sat at the head of the thick wood table. The sunlight through the window behind him caused his thinning hair to glow, and elicited a smirk from more than one of his sons. “So, since none of you ninnies has a single ounce of blood in your body devoted to growth instead of destruction, I can see that it will be necessary for me to see to the running of the cities.” Cornelius’ good-natured badgering had been going on since sunrise or, depending on one’s reckoning, since the birth of his first son. “Therefore, I will be moving my retinue to Messana, to oversee the troop training there. Calius!” The Scipio servant darted into the room. “Any word on the weapons orders we placed in Rome?”

“My apologies lord, but they say they are too busy, with orders from the Senate and the Julii.”

“Julii! Bah. Well, we’ll have to do with what we can. So, I’ll be going to Messana. Gaius,” Cornelius turned to his third son, “you're not the dumbest of the lot, so you get to stay here and manage Capua. This is important. We can conquer all the lands under the heavens, but it won’t make a difference unless we keep hold of some Roman homelands. We’ve got to be able to remind the Senate that we’re right next door. Make sure you keep the other optimates out of here.”

“Yes, father.”

“And build some ships. Lots of ships. Scratch that, build something to build lots of boats. Shipyards or something. We’ll need them if we’re going to be fighting for an island. And a sacrifice to Neptune couldn't hurt. Ask the priests what an appropriate number of fish would be, then cut that number in half. Greedy buggers . . .

“Julianus, Quintus, you’re coming with me. Make sure your bodyguards are in order, and might as well bring the wives while you’re at it. We’ll be there a while. Once we take Syracuse, I’ll be wanting to get the rid of those miserable Peoni on the western end of the island, and I think the Scipii will have enough pull with the Senate by then that we can have a justification for it.”

“What about little Aulus?” Julianus asked after his younger brother, fourteen but growing up quickly.

“He’ll stay here with Mother. Can’t risk him too close, eh? He might be the only one who isn’t dumb enough to get himself killed in all this, and then who’d run things if he did? Ha!” The elder Scipio thumped the table, gulped down the last of his wine, and walked off, muttering “Julii . . . bah . . . upstart senators . . . show them, by Mars I surely will . . .”

"Will he make it through the campaign, brothers?" Julianus wondered aloud.

"Ha! He's been like that since before we were born," Quintus answered. "If he can make it through Senate politics, he can make it through an all-out war."

"Truer words were never spoken," Julianus spoke. The three brothers raised their goblets to toast their crotchety, cantankerous father.

[Ludens]

Thanks very much, Ludens. It's an interesting conundrum; we all play the game and know the rules, but in a narrative like this, ther'es not much chance to mention the actual game mechanics. Seems like having someone playing the game, in whatever way, just makes it that much easier. And easier to gloss over turns, too . . . click end turn a few times in the modern day story, and I can jump back in whenever I want.

Indeed, but that was not what I meant. The story "Blood on Simulated Blades" started pretty much like yours, as a VR experience of R:TW. However, after the first post the VR storyline was dropped in favour of a real-life one where the main character/player had to give a guided tour of the gaming complex. I think the story losts its momentum there, and that's why the writer gave up, but I don't really know this. If you want to judge for yourself, you can find the link to the story in the Library sticky.

[Mysterium]

Ah, so, now I see. Well, now that I'm finally back to some of the actuall Roman stuff, I hope I can stay with more of that. But there is a lot of exposition to be done with this story form, I realize.

[Ludens]

Ah, so, now I see. Well, now that I'm finally back to some of the actuall Roman stuff, I hope I can stay with more of that. But there is a lot of exposition to be done with this story form, I realize.

Well, as far as I can see your story is in no danger of such a thing happening. The real-life storyline is as intriguing as the VR one, if not more. Keep it up!

But I have to ask you to stop sniping the French. It's all harmless right now, but if such jokes are made repeatedly and only directed at one nationality, it becomes offensive. The French are not the only people that have some national peculiarities.

[Mysterium]

Oh, don't worry about that. There's an Oxford professor coming up, and wait 'til you see the Texan. There'll be plenty of sniping to go around.

[Mysterium]

Scipii Simulator

“Okay, so that’s that. We’ve got our two good generals on Sicily, decent manager in Syracuse, troops building everywhere. Ports in both towns. Anything else we can think of?” Trevor looked around the small circle of couches at his team – Henry, Monica, Carl, and Mike. No one answered. “Nothing? Alright, then we wait.”

“Exactly how long do we wait?” Mike asked tentatively.

“Until next turn. Didn’t read your manual, did you?” Carl responded.

“A little.” “Did not.” “Did too, shut up.” “Make me.” “You make me!”

“Alright, guys, shut up. We’ve got until midnight tonight for the first move, and then twenty four hours for every move after that. But if all the players finish, the move is over, and then its twenty four from that point. So we never really know.”

Hank glanced at his watch. “Given that it’s 2:45 in the afternoon, I’d say we’ve got a while. Anyone care to join me for a late lunch? I was thinking of hitting the Seven Seas club. As long as I’ve got an expense account, I want to make the most of it.”

“I have a few more final grades to give out, I am afraid. Perhaps later in the week,” Monica answered.

“I think we’re gonna get used to the simulators,” Carl spoke for both himself and Mike.

“I’ll come,” Trevor answered, grabbing his omnipresent backpack and starting for the door. “I’ll see everyone back here at nine at the latest. I want to have some plans for the next turns laid out before it happens.”



The chime for a new game turn sounded at eight thirty, while Carl and Mike were deep in the VR of the simulators and the rest of the Scipii faction was spread about the Park. Trevor, still a little woozy from his fifth ride on the Mongol Coaster (lines were sparse around closing time) was brought sharply back to attention when his pager buzzed on his hip. The History Assembly folks had given it to him without telling him what it was for, but now he glanced at the color screen and saw “Game Day 1 ended. Game day 2 announcements:” with a list of the happenings in his faction. His eyes bugged out, he threw on his backpack, and started sprinting towards the History Assembly Sublease area while tapping frantically at the tiny pager’s touch screen.

He was the last to arrive, and found the others waiting in the lounge for him. “Sorry I’m late, guys.”

“You know, Trevor, we only took two hours to make our move last time, and they gave us twenty four. I don’t think speed was all that much of the essence,” Monica reasoned.

“Maybe, but better to make sure, right? What’s the first?” Trevor reached down and picked up the wand used to control the screens, slipping the one-handed gamer’s keyboard over his left hand. There were four announcements along the flat panels, and he clicked the first of them.

The lights in the simulator dimmed for a moment, and then the overhead projectors came back on, giving an almost-holographic representation of the open courtyard of a Roman aristocrat’s dwelling. If he didn’t look too closely, Trevor was convinced. The lighting had even transformed his own recliner into a high-backed, carved wooden chair. Through an arch at the edge of the courtyard an elderly man with the air of a statesman walked in, holding a scroll. “My lord, the Greek Cities offer you a trade agreement.”

Cuts right to the chase, Trevor thought. He glanced over at his advisors, some of whom shrugged, others nodded. “We accept.”

Other announcements, other messengers, and the team went through the second turn’s announcements before turning to troop movements. A Greek army had moved north from Syracuse, but had turned west, headed toward the Carthaginians. A Scipii spy was sent out to see about the Carthaginian army. Julianus marched south to the Scipii border with four units of hastati, the best that could be scraped together from Capua and Messana’s garrisons. And in the northwestern corner of Apulia, close to the Scipii homelands . . .

“A-ha! Rebels. Perfect.” Trevor rubbed his hands together.

“This is good, why?” Carl asked.

“Just wait. Hank knows what I’m talking about.” The older man had a slight grin on his face. His lunch with Trevor had revealed them seeing more eye-to-eye than they had thought, and this was another example. “Carl, Mike, see what troops we can spare from Capua. And Gaius as well. Umm, lemme see. How do we send a message?” Trevor’s hand lightly flicked the wand from screen to screen of the upper flat panels before finding the diplomatic option he wanted. “Alright. Uh, do I just dictate this?” Trevor hollered towards the technician’s booth.

“Yeah, just start talking,” one tech said, leaning toward the microphone. He placed a hand over it, turned to his compatriot, and asked, “What’s this kid doing?” The other just shrugged, but punched a button to call Ian’s attention to the Scipii simulator, just in case.

“Okay. Well, if I just talk, you guys’ll make it sound all Roman and diplomatic, right?” The techs nodded again. “Alrighty. Send a diplomat to the Brutii, with our apologies.”

“Apologies for what?” Mike asked, slightly indignant and extremely confused.

Trevor waved at him impatiently, standing up and strolling down the
stairs to stand on the enormous map of Europe the was displayed by the wall and ceiling projectors. He stood with his feet on either side of Sicily and stared down at the southern end of the boot. “Send our apologies, and explain that a rabble-rousing slave from our own province, Campania, has escaped into Apulia and stirred up a rebellion. Tell them we apologize for the inconvenience, and not to bother to send troops, because we will deal with it. And then the usual froo-frah about the glory of Rome, etc, ad infinitum. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Hank called down from the lounge with a thumbs-up.

“Alright. Carl, Mike, get the troops moving. I want to hit these rebels and hit ‘em hard. Scipii are gonna have a no-nonsense reputation. And I want to hit them before our diplomat even gets to the Brutii in Tarentum. And after we beat them, which we will, I want to get a rider with news of our victory there right after the diplomat. Let ‘em know what they’re dealing with.”

Mike went straight for the keyboard and started looking at the garrison in Capua, while Carl walked to the railing and looked down at Trevor. “Uh, Trev, sorry to be a wet rag, but where are you getting this? Did you get a scroll that I didn’t?”

“Carl, I’m making all of this up, doofus.”

“Yeah, I got that, but why? Making them blame us for a rebellion?”

Trevor shook his head. “Hank, you wanna take this one?”

Henry stood up and walked over to Carl. “See, here’s the thing. A few reasons why this is good. If we make up a story about how it’s our fault, then we go around taking care of it, we get a rep for cleaning up our own messes. And, if we go into someone else’s backyard, it makes it look like the Brutii can’t take care of themselves.”

“Especially if we get a messenger to Rome about it before they can. And also, we’ve got troubles in Capua, right? If we go out of our way to stomp on rebels in the next province over, how do you think the first families in Capua are gonna feel? That’s right, properly terrified.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Carl said, sitting down with Mike and wandering through the muster of cohorts.

“Wow, this kid’s slippery,” the tech muttered again.

“Sure is,” said Ian from a video screen in the technician’s booth. “We’re getting feed of this for our media people, right?”

“Sure are boss. They’re gonna luuuuuvvv this.”

Ian chuckled, and both techs glanced down at the screen. “I just thought of how that professor from Oxford is going to look when he gets this message. Ha! I’ll see you guys later, I’ve gotta get down there in person . . .”


Brutii Simulator

“Message, sir.” The professor snatched the proffered scroll and, after placing his monocle firmly in his right eye, read it slowly. His face went from a rather tepid and sallow pink to a very angry red, and was shading to even more complex patterns when he opened his mouth to speak.

“The audacity! The sheer, bald-faced, open . . . grahhh!” The Oxford professor was a stunning shade of mottled pink, holding and shaking the scroll as if he could wring the message right out of it. Ian, who had just ‘happened’ to check in a few minutes after he heard Trevor dictate the message, was quite shocked by the entirely unhealthy look of the Brutii player. “I KNOW I have rebels. I was going to DEAL with them, but in a MOMENT!” he bellowed. “Charles! Dammit Charles, where have you gotten to, it’s not that large an edifice in which we are, you know!” A sycophantic graduate student simpered over to his professor. “I want cavalry riding there right now. Now, you hear me!”

“But sir, it’s nearly twice the distance from Tarentum as-”

“I know my Italian geography, you upstart whipper-snapper! Get them moving. Get me diplomats. Lots of Diplomats! One for Rome, one for the slaves, one for these damned upstart Scipii, and . . . WHAT IS IT?” he bellowed, another grad student had obtrusively placed herself in front of him. She held out a telephone.

“Your wife, sir.”

“NOT NOW! Oh, sod it,” he muttered, his deeply affected accent slipping in the heat of the moment. “Someone get me a crumpet and a cup of tea.”


Northwestern Apulia, Gauis Scipio with the Capua Garrison


“They call themselves warriors?” Gaius thundered down his small line of battle, passing in front of the single cohort of hastate and his own bodyguard. “They are no warriors! They are not even slaves anymore!” A faint cheer. The men weren’t sure where his line of reasoning was headed, but they understood that pauses were for yelling, so they yelled. “They are dead men, they just don’t know it!”

Gaius paused at the edge of his bodyguards. “Let’s show them!”

“Nice speech,” Carl muttered. He stood at vague attention next to the centurion of his cohort who, at the moment, was Mike.

“Quiet in the ranks,” the centurion bellowed.

“Oh, piss off,” Carl answered. The hastate next to him looked vaguely shocked, then acquired a look of stone-faced ignorance, all the while trying to edge away from Carl while keeping rigid formation.. “Next time, I’m the centurion.”

“Next time there might be more than one cohort. Or you could learn to ride. Besides, I won the coin toss fair and square. Now march!” The hastate moved forward at a light jog, staring across a few hundred paces of upward-sloping terrain at the rebels. Apparently, they were a mercenary group gone awry; a handful of Samnite spearmen were mixed in with a few more handfuls of peasants. Gaius’ bodyguards were trotting along on the hastati’s right flank, horses stepping proudly.

The entire force slowed to a halt a pilum’s throw away from the enemy, and Mike called out, “Hastati, prepare pila!” Then the entire battle plan went quickly awry.

The Samnites trotted, then worked themselves into a full charge, rolling and flowing down the hill straight towards Gaius and his cavalry. With one look at their spears, Gaius wheeled his horse and began galloping to the rear, breaking straight away from the force. Mike urgently whispered, “What do I do?”

“Cohort, pivot right!” Carl called out, and the hastate ground into motion, pila still held, ready to throw. “Now we stay here, because we’re the pivot. And when they’re in the right spot, we hit ‘em.”

“Got it. When’s the right spot?” The peasants and spearmen were thundering down the hill after the retreating cavalry, passing right in front of the hastati, caring little for their presence. If they could reach the cavalry and keep them pinned in, then any of the Scipii advantage of mobility, along with possibly their general, would be lost.

“Now seems good.”

“Throw and charge!” Mike bellowed. The two friends each grabbed the pila from their shield arms, reared back, and threw. A shower of two-meter long spikes flew at the enemy, some striking men, some hitting the ground. As Mike started forward he saw an unfortunate spearman catch a javelin in the shoulder then trip over another protruding from the ground.

“Now we fight?” Mike asked, breaking into a sprint with the rest of the hastati coming along even with him.

Carl glanced to the side, saw Gaius wheeling his cavalry and coming back to hit the spearmen. “Now we fight.” A rough battle cry broke from his throat and soon the rest of the cohort was bellowing, causing the rebels to falter, to turn, to face the new threat.

A few more seconds, and they were among them. A spear jabbed at his face and Carl slipped his head to the side, hearing a slight metallic ring as it glanced off his helmet. An upward swing of his shield and the spear was pointed up, exposing the chest underneath. A thrust from his gladius and the man was down. A moment’s movement from his left and Carl spun, catching the peasant’s dagger on his shield and countering with his sword. The peasant leapt backwards, avoiding the blow, but a charging Roman caught him unawares and ran his gladius home into the peasant’s belly. The scream was barely human and quickly silenced.

“Not real not real not real not real not real,” Carl chanted the mantra to himself. A pilum flew over his shoulder and caught a spearman in the chest, and Carl and Mike both poured into the gap in the already-ragged line. They ran through, Carl hacking to the left and Mike to the right. What had seemed to be the front line of the enemy was, in truth, almost the entire line. Mike grabbed his second pilum and was about to throw it at the rebel’s standard bearer when a hand caught his ankle and he fell, twisting to fall on his back. Two men stood over him, both brandishing daggers. He swung the back end of the javelin around and caught one in the face, momentarily stunning him, while the other dove onto him, dagger poised.

The peasant slumped, and Mike heard a scream as he pushed the body off of him. Gaius’ cavalry had hit the rebels from the rear, and the whole force was in flight, running to the north. The cavalry thundered past, racing after them, and left the hastati to look after the wounded and the survivors. “Heya buddy. You have fun?” Carl asked, holding out a hand.

Mike dropped the javelin, grabbed the hand, and heaved himself up. “That was terrifying.”

“I know, wasn’t it?” Carl mentioned with a grin.

“You’re an idiot.” “You are.” “Shut up.” “Make me.”


Gaius Scipio’s tent, campground in Eastern Campania

“Bring him in.” The guards on either side of Gaius’ campaign tent pulled the flaps aside, and the rebel prisoner was brought in, hands bound behind him with thick leather cords. Two guards stood on either side of him. “You have been told why I’ve asked you here?”

“Yes, lord, I have. I’m willing to help.” Gaius looked at the man’s face. Young, relatively proud. Handsome, in a common way. He would do.

“Why? You can gain nothing from this.”

“I will do as you require. I ask only that my wife, my child, slaves in Apulia, be bought and preserved. I know what happens when slaves rebel. And the Brutii will not be kind. You have shamed them by attacking us before they could.”

Gaius nodded. A sharp mind, this one. He would still die, but he was sharp. “Very well. Centurion, have this man taken to Capua. Instruct one of my diplomats to present him to the Senate as the rebel leader and have him executed.” Turning to the slave, he said, “I know that you are from Apulia, but you will say you are from Campania, will you not? That is our bargain. You say you escaped from Scipii lands and started a rebellion in Brutii lands.”

“Yes, lord. I understand.” He left under the care of the guards. No weeping, no regrets, no thanks, no nothing. One could almost mistake him for Roman, Gaius thought.

“Centurion! Break camp, we head home.”


Scipii Simluator

“Thanks from the Senate, more protests from the Brutii. Trait increase; Gaius is a Good Commander now. Ah, here we are. The Lauridii in Capua want to throw a festival in Gaius’ honor. The optimates of Capua are falling all over themselves to kiss our butts now that we’ve shown them the iron fist. That was a nice touch with executing the mercenary captain in Capua, by the way, Hank.”

“Well, an execution in our capital and in Rome, works out nicely that way.”

“You two scare me,” Mike said.

“Hey, it’s just a game. Besides, we’re not the ones lusting after another battle.”

“Ah, Mike just wants to make up for tripping in the middle of the last one, and me saving his life.”

“You did not.” “Did too.” “I’ll show you saved.” “What does that even mean?”

“Shut up, you two. Monica, how do the finances look?”

She looked up from her keypad and said, “Good. The taxation looks well, and I think I have enough things in place to get the Scipii family a good fortune from the trade that we’ll have coming through Capua and Messana next summer. I think that’s about as well as can be.”

“Excellent. Nice turn, everyone. We’ll look towards taking Syracuse in the next few, but I want to see what the Greeks and the Carthaginians do to each other first. I think we can take a break until next turn.”

[Ciaran]

Very cool, you make the mixing between the VR and the real happenings work very well. I´m looking forward for more.

[Ludens]

Oh, don't worry about that. There's an Oxford professor coming up, and wait 'til you see the Texan. There'll be plenty of sniping to go around.

Just making sure.

Incidentally, could you write a bit more about the different members of the team? Right now I am having a little trouble to distinguish them, especially Mike and Carl. Usually when writers have to introduce multiple characters at the same time they flood you with information, but you have gone a bit too far to the otherside.

[Mysterium]

Thanks Ciaran. I hope I keep delivering for you.

And Ludens, I do realize the two of them are basically interchangeable at the moment, but there is method to my madness. Or maybe just madness. But either way . . . they're going to be the ones doing most of the simulator work, so I want to identify them more with the characters they develop in the VR, and less with who they really are. But check back in a couple of posts; if they're still too undefined for you, I'll take a tangent for some backstory on them.

Always happy to oblige requests.

[Ludens]

Mysterium, are you going to continue this story? I would be sorry to see it end so soon.

[Mouzafphaerre]

.

.

[Shadow]

It was a wonderful story please continue

[Mysterium]

So, after a long time (years! eek) I've realized this is one of the more worthy projects I 've ever started, and that I should at least give it another go. First of all, my apologies for dragging a zombie back up the thread list. Secondly, something of a poll. For anyone who had read any of this (then or more recently), I'm trying to decide if I should continue this story, or go back and change it from Rome to something out of MTW2? Any opinions? For that matter, any audience?

[mrdun]

Continue this!! This is so cool!! Nice work!!

[Ciaran]

I daresay either would be fine. Since you already made a start on the Roman one, it would be a bit redundant to start all over again for a medieval scenario. However, if you´re feeling more like writing the latter do so by all means. Either way, I´m looking forward to the next story post.

[Mysterium]

History Park, History Assembly Executive Offices

Jones stepped up to the paneled wooden door and set his knuckles against it but delayed knocking for a moment. Truth be told, he was scared. He knew what was coming, and wanted to stave it off for as long as possible. And the surroundings were intimidating; he was used to the less-than-stellar digs that the History Assembly staff had down in the old parking lot, not the executive offices up in History Park proper, where the big wigs did . . . whatever big wigs do. At the gentle cough from the secretary he turned, shrugged, and knocked on the door.

“Come on in!” came the holler. He pushed his way through the door.

Ms. Sarna’s office was rather large. Palatial might have been pushing it, but it was certainly nicer than anything Jonesy had ever – or would ever – own in his life. Ian, the head of the Assembly’s computer geeks, was seated in one of the chairs in front of Sarna’s thick wood desk. He was playing with his handheld, answering some electronic mail.

Ms. Sarna was machine-gunning orders to four different staffers simultaneously but managed to find time to wave a hand indicating Jones should have a seat next to Ian. “We’ll need to set up a formal schedule for the judges, since I believe we’ll have plenty of fodder for them. I think the Texan was joking about teaching the Scythians how to build a steam engine, but all the same, we’ll need to make things stay at least historically plausible. Have marketing buy another 5 points, radio-heavy, the ratings after the Scipii stunt and the Oxford professor’s crumpet-throwing tantrum justify it, I feel. And please, please tell me someone’s been ramming our building proposals through the local government’s planning agency. I’ve got 2,000 men in hardhats waiting to turn that parking lot into a Roman villa, and if we have to ask History Park for yet another favor with the locals, I won’t be able to show my face around here. Go.” She waved her hand and the four staffers busily departed, buzzing in low tones like the drones they were as they shared and delegated tasks among themselves. “Ian, Mr. Jones, sorry to’ve kept you waiting.” Both men mumbled incoherent word along the lines of ‘no trouble at all,’ because the boss took up your time at her own convenience.

“I’ll cut to the chase, Mr. Jones. You were loaned from History Park to our company only for the time it took to finish recruiting for our project, at which point you would be returned to their employment, or released, depending on their needs. I’m sorry to say that History Park has expressed no need to continue your services.”

Jones did his best not to look crestfallen. “I know, ma’am. At least, I was expecting it.”

She held up a hand. “However . . .” Jones perked up. “I believe there are a number of tasks that need doing around here, and a man with your experience and knowledge of both History Park and our own History Assembly would be particularly useful. Specifically, Ian here needs someone to run interference between his own department and the AI specialists at the Park. Would that interest you?”

Jonesy broke out into a grin that he couldn’t stop. “Yes ma’am, it would.”

“Excellent. Say hello – again – to your new boss.” Jones turn and shook Ian’s hand with a smile. “And if that job doesn’t keep you too busy, there’s another little task I’d like you to undertake. I believe a certain teenager has a number of questions, and you’re just the one to answer them . . .”

“I’ll do what I can, ma’am!”


Scipii simulator


“Hey, guys?” Carl was wielding the wand, and only Hank and Trevor were around. Mike was off sleeping somewhere, and Monica had gone off to lunch with a friend.

“Mmm?” Hank mumbled, not looking up from his reading.

“Uh, one of our spies just managed to get close to the Carthagins on Sicily.”

“Carthaginians,” Hank answered, still not looking up. “Or Peoni.”

“Yeah, whatever. Do we know who Hanno is?”

Hank’s head shot up. “What? Hanno?”

“Yeah, who’s he?”

Trevor came bounding down from the kitchen. “The head of their faction. The main man. The Godfather.”

“So what should I do?”

“Wake up Mike,” Trevor said without hesitation. He glanced at Hank. “If he’s here, you think they’re going for Syracuse too?”

“They may have designs on it, yes,” Hank answered. “Either way, it will be a chance to show strength in front of them, as long as you believe we can keep Messana protected.”

“Hmm, raise a few more levies there, Monica’s not around to tell us not to spend the cash. And hit Syracuse hard with whatever we can spare.”

“Are we gonna have a battle?” Carl asked.

“Better than that,” Hank answered. “A siege.”


Scipii villa, Messana


A servant entered with a message scroll during Cornelius’ morning meal. He sat up from his couch and took it, noting the wolf’s-head seal of Gaius, his third son. He unrolled it and scanned it quickly.

“Ha! Take a look at this, you lazy slug.” Cornelius threw the scroll at Julianus, who was eating his own breakfast, reclined on a nearby couch. Their wives glanced up for a moment, but soon returned to their own affairs, speaking of an issue with the servant’s pay and ignoring the bluster of their husbands.

Julianus took the scroll and unfurled it. “By Jupiter’s beard, that little rascal.”

“We’ve been sitting here staring at maps for weeks, and already your little brother has blooded his sword, tweaked the nose of the Brutii, and gotten laurels from the Senate of Rome.”

“Makes you look like a lazy slug, too, father.”

Cornelius Scipio guffawed. “That he does. That he does, I suppose. Tell me, what troops do we have that we can dispatch to Syracuse?”

Julianus hauled himself up from his couch and pulled out a well-worn parchment with a rough map of Sicilia. “Quintus is still in the south, pretending to guard the border from that army of Carthaginians marching around. He’s got maybe half a legion with him? Perhaps a bit more. We have a few auxiliaries here in Messana – some velites and some archers. They could be added in.”

“And the marching Greeks?”

“Quintus hasn’t seen them, or he’d send word. I sent a few men west, but they haven’t spotted them either. So there’s an army of Greeks somewhere on Sicilia, but we know they’re not in Syracuse.”

Cornelius motioned for a servant to take his food away and stood. “Good. Very good. I want you to take whatever auxiliaries you can scrape together to stiffen Quintus’ troops, head south, then take Syracuse. You lead.”

Julianus bowed his head. “Yes, Pater. As you will it.”