Rome: Where Eagles Dare

[Zaknafien]

Salve all. Following is a placeholder for my first EB AAR, Where Eagles Dare. This will be a .80 beta AAR, and will not officially begin until the release of .80. Until then, I will be doing an in-depth prologue, covering the majority of the Pyrrhic War up until the time of the game's start--introducing characters, plotlines, and giving historical background.

Once the game begins I will post some detailed rules I will be playing by, etc, but for the time suffice to say that this will be a realistic themed campaign, and I will attempt to do my best to play the Romani as a real nation, with real political goals and problems. Feedback, comments, and questions are greatly encourged. Enjoy!

[Zaknafien]

*****

For EB .80 Beta Coming Soon...

"The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
And is not careful what they mean,
Knowing that with the shadow of his wings
He can at pleasure stint their melody."
--Titus Andronicus, ACT IV, Scene IV

In 281 BCE, the Greek city of Taranto assisted King Pyrrhus of Epirus in his conqest of the island of Corcyra, providing financial assistance to the hot-headed Epirote ruler who styled himself a second Alexandros. In return for this aide, the democrats of Taranto sought Epirote aid against the Romani, whom had recently completed their own conquests of the Samnites and Lucanians, on the very doorstep of Magna Graecia. Fearing future Roman expansion, and knowing they could not defeat the upstart city in battle, the Tarantines lured Pyrrhus into their scheme to do their fighting for them. With a bending of an ancient naval treaty, Taranto declared war on the Romans after rebuffing their envoys of negotiation. It is believed that Pyrrhus' true intentions were for Sicily, which he would use as a base to capture Carthage to finance his future wars against Macedonia. In any case, the Epirote king landed in Italia in 280 BC with 25,000 troops, many of them on loan from other Successor kings in hopes the firebrand would use them in Italy and not against themselves. He met the Roman army under Publius Laevinius on the Siris river near the Greek city of Heraclea, in what would become the first pitched engagement of the war that would send the city of seven hills onto the center stage of an international arena...


PRELUDE

Four days before the Ides of Quintilis
Near Pandosia, Lucania
473 Ab Urbe Condita

He awoke suddenly with sudden, terrifying awareness and crystal clarity. There was sudden rabid sqwaking as a huge crow startled and hopped back from him, dark feathers falling as it lept into the blinding brightness of the flaming sun high in the western sky. He was lying face-down on the cold, wet earth, and all around the sounds of hungry carrion birds calling to one another or flapping about restlessly. His eyes were focused but he could not see in the brightness of the setting sun, and as he tried to prop himself up he realized in sudden horror he could not feel his legs.

He was prostrate upon an cold carpet of churned and muddy grass, and could feel the frost on the wind as his hair ruffled in front of his eyes from it. His fingers were cold and numb, but he propped himself up tentatively. His head swam with blurred memories and stinging pain that rang like a blacksmith’s hammer on iron. Groaning, he managed to shield his eyes from the sun and look about furtively.

The dead lay everywhere.

Strewn about like rag dolls after some giant’s temper tantrum, bodies lie scattered across the plain, still and half-frozen, many lying atop others and some in macabre piles three-men deep. The mud was stained with dried blood except where the new fall had obscured it, and tatters of clothing, weapons, and battered coreslets and helms lied like so much flotsam here and there. The crows were feasting lazily, flapping about and fighting over scraps of cold flesh, calling to one another like bickering children. To his right some distance there was the largest mound of death, and there on a slanted pike-staff a tattered banner of crimson and gold was fluttering limply in the small, cold wind. Behind him loomed the corpse of a large chestnut mare, having thrown him before it fell.

He should be dead, but he was not.

He tried to call for help, but the word came out as a dry-mouthed croak that cracked before he could utter the word. His hands were stained blackish-red with dried blood, and he could now feel the swelling pain on his head where something had struck him. He pushed himself up further, shaking the dirt from his back, and with relief realized the feeling was slowly coming back to his legs.

Some in Rome later said a god had visited him that day amongst the dead, though he never claimed as much himself. Nearly seven thousand Roman men lay dead upon that field, and he yet lived, a pawn of Fortuna. And she was a fickle goddess indeed.

He remembered with a pang of iron in his head the crushing press of the battle, the roar of men and beasts and the din of metal crashing. There were screams and cries, and the sky had been thick with javelins and darts that fell like summer rain. One man dragged his comrade away from the line, pink slivers of intestines hanging from his bowels where an Epirote spear had gorged him. Another clutched his face where sprouted the shaft of a feathered arrow fired from an enemy he could not even see.

And then the elephants. The beasts were like boulders animated with a foul spirt, monstrous machines that marched carelessly into the line of hastati, flinging men aside like so much refuse. Some had been killed by the men in the towers mounted to the animal's hides, others gorged by their iron-sheathed tusks or stampeded to death underfoot. The Roman line had melted away like mist in the sunlight when Pyrrhus unleashed their charge, and what seemed a victory turned quickly into catastrophe and rout.

The wind howled as if to warn him, and he managed to turn himself over with an aching groan. With horror, he saw dark figures behind him--hooded men moving amongst the dead, each carrying a long staff and knives at their sides. They were scavengers or thieves, who had come to liberate the earthly treasures that had not been already taken by the victors of the battle. He tried to call at them for help, mumbled something incoherent instead and groaned as his head swam with dizziness and nausea and then finally collapsed again on his back, staring up into the sun-bright, flame-red sky.

“Dead?” one of the bandits asked, a tall, crow-faced man with deep-set dark eyes and a wisp of beard that hung to his chest.

“Soon enough,” replied the other, raising the hem of his robe and stooping beside him to rummage through the pouch tied to his belt.

“He lives yet though, look at his eyes. Is he wounded?” The bandit leaned on the staff like a walking cane as they looked him over. Overhead a crow called out, as if warning them to leave its prey be.

“I can see no wound, but the cold will kill him sure enough when night falls.” This one was dark of complexion, with a hawk-like nose, heavy brow, and a beard black as coals. Finding nothing of intrest in his belt pouch, he reached into the man’s tunic and there snapped the smaller pouch hanging from his neck.

"Volturn," the thief said, examining the tiny tablet he found within the pouch. "This one is Roman nobilitas," he fingered the tablet and held it to the sun. "You see?"

"Cornelli..you know it?" Volturn asked, shrugging.

"No, but someone will. Let's take him."

Suddenly the sound of a long, low horn came from the west, and the rogues looked at one another, a wordless caution exchanging between their eyes.

The dark-bearded one slowly rose, fingering the tailisman he had found within the pouch. He looked hard and long towards the mist-shrouded west from whence the horn came.“Let us be gone then,” he said at length, grabbing one of the Roman's arms to drag.

[Censor]

This piece of work makes my AAR pale in comparison. The imagery is just amazing. I'll enjoy reading yours far more than I will enjoy writing mine.

Great work!

[-Praetor-]

Good one.

[Imperator]

that is some incredible writing...

[Imperator]

ok, EB's out! Is this AAR in the works? or has it been too long?

[Aymar de Bois Mauri]

Damn! I've only just read this. Exceptional writting. What a literary ambience...

A masterwork, Zak!!

[Reverend Joe]

Write it now or I shall hound you to the ends of the earth for depriving us all of a brilliant, novella-style AAR.

[Septimus]

Wow, I think I should call a publisher. Can't wait for the next installment.

[Zaknafien]

Ha! Salve guys, thanks for all the support.. yes I suppose I will get around to writing the beginning of this work, EB is more of a tool for me to be able to write the story I want.. Im somewhat of a prolific AAR writer on the Paradox forums. Stay with me and youll be able to drudge through the literary forest with me.

[Justiciar]

Can't wait.

[Aymar de Bois Mauri]

Im somewhat of a prolific AAR writer on the Paradox forums. Stay with me and youll be able to drudge through the literary forest with me.

Hehehe. Nice.

[Daimon]

Ha! Salve guys, thanks for all the support.. yes I suppose I will get around to writing the beginning of this work, EB is more of a tool for me to be able to write the story I want.. Im somewhat of a prolific AAR writer on the Paradox forums. Stay with me and youll be able to drudge through the literary forest with me.

Do you write on the Paradox Forums? Tell me what are some of your Aar's? There

[Zaknafien]

My name is Alhazen on there, I wrote Sins of the Father , a CK AAR, and Sons of Mars, a Rome-mod Eu2 AAR that is technicallys till ongoing if I ever get a chance to write for it.

[Daimon]

You wrote Sins of the Father? That's one of my Favorite CK AAR's! That AAR made me buy CK.

[Zaknafien]

The Pyrrhic War initially started as a minor conflict between Rome and the city of Tarentum over a naval treaty violation by one of the Roman consuls. Tarentum had, however, lent aid to the Greek ruler Pyrrhus of Epirus in his conflict with Corcyra, and requested military aid from Epirus. Pyrrhus honored his obligation to Tarentum and joined the complex series of conflicts involving Tarentum, Thurii (as well as other cities of Magna Graecia), the Romans, Samnites, and Etruscans. To further complicate historical analysis of the conflict, Pyrrhus also involved himself in the internal political conflicts of Sicily, as well as the Sicilian struggle against Carthaginian dominance.

Pyrrhus' involvement in the regional conflicts of Sicily reduced the Carthaginian influence in Sicily drastically. In Italy, his involvement seems to have been mostly ineffectual but had long term implications. The Pyrrhic war
proved both that the nations of ancient Greece were incapable of defending the independent colonies of Magna Graecia and that the Roman legions were capable of competing with the armies of the dominant Mediterranean powers of the time — the Greek kingdoms. This opened the way for Roman dominance over the city states of Magna Graecia and advanced the Roman consolidation of power in Italy greatly. Rome's proven record in international military conflicts would also aid its resolve in its rivalry with Carthage, which was eventually to culminate in the Punic Wars.

In 279 the Epirote king won his costly victory at Asculum. While campaigning on Sicily, the Republic rebuilt his army and upon his return to the Penninsula was confronted by a force that outnumbered him greatly at Beneventum in 275. After quitting Italia, the would be conquere became occupied elsewhere, leaving a token garrison to assist in allied Tarentum's defense, and the whole of Magna Graceia open to Roman dominance..

Mansion of the Cornelli, Palatine Hill
Roma, Latium

16th Aprilus, five days before the Feriae Parilia

481 Ab Urbe Conditia
(272 BCE)

Marcus Cornelius awoke suddenly with a shout, to the sound of pattering rain on the tegulae tiled rooftop and a flash of lightning beyond the alcove in the night. The curtain had blown inward from the wind and the archway was wet from the rain he could see refelcted in the diminishing lamplight. His brow was damp with persperation, and his hands shivered slightly in the unsuspected chill of the night air.

The memory of that day faded like mist as he awoke, thankfully, and Marcus Decimus sat up in the bed and ran a hand through his sweat-damp black hair, breathing deeply. So many had died, and the torture he had recieved at the hands of his captors...he rubbed the scarred tissue on his hands in remembrance of the fire and closed his eyes to chase the dream away again.

His cubiculum was small, typical of a junior family member of the household. The floor was smoothed stone with rushes and the tiled walls depicted a typical mosaic on the longest portion whose archway led into the garden. An olive oil lamp sizzled the remainder of its fuel against the doorway.

He stood, slipping on his sandals and moving to the portico, rain drizzling at his feet. The night air was cold, uncommonly so for the season, and a dark front of clouds flecked with the occasional flash of lightning cast a pall over the slumbering city of Rome.

The view of the city was good, as their domus was perched on the Palantine, directly adjacent to the Forum on the corner of the Clivus Sacer and Clivus Orbius. To the west he could see the lightning flashes reflected off the bend in the Tiber as it snaked its way through the city beyond the Aventine and out to the sea. The cold air filled his lungs and the rain fell on his brow, cooling him.

The storm did not bode well as an auspice for his journey. Tomorrow, he would set out with a turmae of cavalry guards for Arpi to join his cousin Lucius Scipionii with the Legion massing there for the summer thrust into the Graeci stronghold of Tarentum, which the Senate had planned as a definitive end to the struggle with the dominion of Phyrrus that had engulfed the Res Publica for the past years. The self-styled heir of Alexandros had left Italia long ago, fighting with his armies in the Graeci homeland, but his influence held sway in the south, in what was called Magna Graecia. Tarentum was their defacto capital, a strong city which had essentially begun the war by
inviting Phyrrus and his invading army to defend them.

The thought of several days on horse-back through the rugged Appenines and into the foothills of Apulia did not strike him as enjoyable even in the best of weather.

"Marcus, what on earth are you doing?" came the familliar voice.

"I couldn't sleep, the storm woke me," he replied without looking back.

Domita roused from the bed and came to stand beside her husband, slipping her hands onto his slender shoulders.

Theirs was a marriage of love, rare enough within the nobility of the Res Publica, but when Marcus was found unsuited for the Senate his political career was effectively ended and his father gave his blessing to the union with a significantly lower household.

"Is it the dreams again?" She asked.

"It's gone now," he said, and turned to kiss her on her brow. "I believe I will begin packing for our journey. Go back to sleep."

There then came a rapping on the door that disturbed their embrace.

"Who is it?" Marcus asked.

"Master, it is I, Phalerus," their chief household slave replied from beyond the doorway. "Sir, your father is here."

"What on earth.." Marcus grabbed his folded household tunic from the chair and pulled it over his shoulders before walking outside.

The reception area was wet from mud-spattered sandals and dripping paenulae, long hooded cloaks that brushed the wearer's feet. A group of men stood therein, drying themselves. A tall man emerged from the group and came to embrace Marcus lightly, kissing his cheek. "Marcus, good to see you," he said.

"Father, what is the meaning of this?"

"It is something best discussed in private," he said, incling his head towards his companions.

"Very well. Phalerus, take their cloaks." Marcus commanded. "And get some wine for the Consul."

*****
The Sign of the Dancing Man
Aventine Hill, Roma

The Dancing Man was a seedy sort of establishment, not a place to be visited alone at night in any case--its reputation was one of drag-out fights and knives in the back over gambling matches. Frequented by sailors, foreigners, slaves, and moneylenders, it was not a place an upstanding Roman would be seen in.

Serventius was not an upstanding Roman, though. He walked down the mud-sodden street oblivious to the cacophony of noise coming from the many taberna along the street. It was a dreary evening and cold as well, and the brothels and taverns were bustling with noise and light. He pulled the cowl lower about his face as a droplet of rain ran down

the brim, and came to the thick-set door of the Dancing Man.

Candles burning luridly from within clay bowls lit open archway whose muddy steps led down into the taproom, and a large Coriscan sailor pushed past the him as he came down the stairwell, the sailor's breath reeking of sour wine.

The bar was an old wine cellar, its cool cobblestone walls slick with moisture and not a little mold, with rough-hewn tables scattered about the common room and several shelves of alcohol on the far. The owner kept rooms for rent upstairs, though few of them had doors and none bore locks, it was a dangerous place to stay and only the most desperate did so.

The place was full of your usual assortment of scum--fat crooked merchants from gods-knew where, lusty sailors come up the Tiber from foreign ports of call to ply their wares and steal good Romans' money, gap-toothed whores and dice-throwing con-men. Serventius found a stool against the farthest trestle-table in the corner of the place and kicked the mud off his boots before taking a seat. As always, he sat facing the room, aware of any movement within the taberna.

"You are Caius' man?" a thickly accented Greek asked him almost as soon as he sat, seemingly coming from nowhere.

He did not look up and took a sip of the sour piss that served for wine in this place one of the serving women had brought.

"I might be. And you?"

"Ambraxis."

"The pleasure is mine..." He examined the agent as he moved to sit across from him. A short, stocky fellow, Ambraxis was also thickly cloaked against the rain. His short black beard was neatly trimmed, and his eyes dark and inquisitive beneath his hood.

"Payment has been made already. I can get you into Tarentum, but once you are established our connection ends. You understand?"

"Indeed--" Serventius stopped in mid-sentence, feeling a presence behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a tall Numidian standing behind him, wrapped in cured leathers and a thick hide, his skin leathery and dark, his beard braided. “Go away,” Serventius said, calmly.

The Numidian grunted out something in his native tongue, which Serventius didn’t understand.

“He says he wants to fight,” Ambraxis groaned.

“What for?” Serventius asked, unintimidated but annoyed by the interruption.

“Who knows. He probably thinks youre a gladiator.”

“Tell him no.”

Ambraxis did so, and the Numidian only grunted and pulled out a long knife from his belt.

“He still wants to fight,” the Greek said, almost amused by now.

Serventius groaned, then ran his hand over his face. “First blood?” He asked, Ambraxis , not the Numidian.

After a moment’s translation, the Greek responded “Aye.”

Serventius reached back, his wrist moving like a rattle-snake striking fast as you please, and before the African knew it, he no longer possessed the knife that had been in his hand a moment before. The Roman gripped the blade and ran it across the palm of his left hand quickly, drawing a bright sheen of blood along the cut.

“He wins,” he said.

The few men who had crowded near to watch the coming fight laughed, and the Iberian growled in indignation. He snatched at the knife, and Serventiuslet him take it back easily.

“He says you mock him,” The Greek grinned, though he could hardly contain his own amusement.

With a look of frustration the tribesman turned and skulked off to the other side of the tavern, where his companions were looking at him with disapproval. Serventius watched him sit back down at their table, and then turned back to the foreigner as the crowd too went back to their respective tables and drinks, the excitement over for the time being.

"Tarentum." He said, broaching the subject again.

"Aye. I have several men within the city watch, and can easily place you to observer their movement. Aiakides controls the citadel, and keeps his Epriote soldiers garrisoned there. It is a difficult place to envelop, but you will see that for youself. This is my plan...."

[Reverend Joe]

Now that's an AAR.

[Aymar de Bois Mauri]

he saw a tall Numidian standing behind him, wrapped in cured leathers and a thick hide, his skin leathery and dark, his beard braided. “Go away,” Serventius said, calmly.

The Iberian grunted out something in his native tongue, which Cale didn’t understand.

AAAAARGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

NUMIDIAN = IBERIAN ????? What the hell are you thinking?

Other than that, excellent...

[Zaknafien]

oh dammit..good catch. piece of an earlier draft!

[Aymar de Bois Mauri]

Thanks...

[Cataphract_Of_The_City]

Great AAR! I am sure everyone will be following this!

481 Ab Urbe Conditia
(472 BCE)

Is this correct? Shouldn't it be (269BCE)?

[Zaknafien]

First, thanks!

And I dont think so, if you take the founding of Rome to be 753 BCE. Then again I'm not really a math whiz, so I could be wrong :)

[Cataphract_Of_The_City]

Well, 481 years after the fundation of Rome (753BCE) would be 272CE. And besides, 472BCE was a few years after the second Persian invasion of Greece and we are talking about a couple of years after Pyrrhus here.

[Zaknafien]

uh, no.. 753 BCE as 0 AC. 481 years after 0 AC is 481 AC. 753 - 481 = 272 BCE.

[NeoSpartan]

Ok wtf I have now been confused.

The dates I know are BC and AC. Wtf is BCE????

[Cataphract_Of_The_City]

uh, no.. 753 BCE as 0 AC. 481 years after 0 AC is 481 AC. 753 - 481 = 272 BCE.

Emm...that's what I said.

Well, 481 years after the fundation of Rome (753BCE) would be 272CE

BCE,CE = Before Common Era, Common Era. Used instead of BC, AD.

[Zaknafien]

So what are you arguing about? Its correct, like I said lol.

[Foot]

So what are you arguing about? Its correct, like I said lol.

Because in your original post you say

481 Ab Urbe Conditia
(472 BCE)

Which is wrong, surely?

Other than that, it rocks!

Foot

[Zaknafien]

oh.. er... I mustve missed that one.. clearly I meant 272, game start date.. this is why lieutenants have editors :) thanks Foot :) *wipes egg off face*

[QwertyMIDX]

Serventius groaned, then ran his hand over his face. “First blood?” He asked, Ambraxis , not the Numidian.

After a moment’s translation, the Greek responded “Aye.”

Serventius reached back, his wrist moving like a rattle-snake striking fast as you please, and before the African knew it, he no longer possessed the knife that had been in his hand a moment before. The Roman gripped the blade and ran it across the palm of his left hand quickly, drawing a bright sheen of blood along the cut.

“He wins,” he said.

The few men who had crowded near to watch the coming fight laughed, and the Iberian growled in indignation. He snatched at the knife, and Serventiuslet him take it back easily.

Did the Iberian thing again.