/qst/ Archive - Commentarii de Bello Sinica, CAPVT I
This series is a transcription of a quest - a kind of a collaborative vote-based text story forum game (that is quite the mouthful!) - I ran in /qst/ back when I was in Germany. Those were pre-Covid years! Wild to think how much time has passed since then. As can be seen in the title, it is heavily influenced (read: ripped off) from the Commentarii by Julius Caesar. For game mechanics, I think I had borrowed from the Black Company QM for individual and mass combat rules. What a great quest that was to read. It remains my favourite. I should re-read it sometime when I have time...
Each line segment indicates a new post. As a quest, which is a form of forum vote game, some options are presented to the readers who cast their votes (and interest) by comments. I have retained all the vote options, but made sure to try and make clear which one was selected by the readers.
I wonder if it might be possible to have coloured fonts on bearblog in the future...
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All Sinai is divided into five parts, one of which the Nanman inhabit, the Dongyi another, those who in their own language are called Joseon-in. Xirong and Beidi are said to inhabit the west and northern regions respectively, separate and distinct from the Xia. All these differ from each other in language, customs, and laws.
The river Wei separates the Xia from the Beidi; the tributaries of the Yangtze separate them from Xirong. The Dongyi to the east have historically been civilised by the Xia, not unlike our Gaul, and have adopted the customs and culture of the people of the Middle Kingdom. Of all these, the Beidi (or the Northern Barbarians) are the bravest, because they are furthest from the civilisation and refinement of the Middle Kingdom, and merchants least frequently resort to them, and import those things which tend to effeminate the mind. They are, too, nearest to the Dongyi, who dwell beyond the river Yalu, with whom they are continually waging war; for which reason the Dongyi nation of Goguryeo also surpasses the rest of the civilised barbarians in valor, as they contend with the Beidi in almost daily battles, when they either repel them from their own territories, or themselves wage war on their frontiers.
The Nanman are an insular race of tribals, given to stealthy dispositions, and fond of swamp frog poison indigenous to their jungles. They are said to eat spiders, snakes, and hairy men. They are not great travelers, nor do they make sailors, despite occupying great forested coastlands, preferring to stay in their disease-filled habitat. The lands of Nanman are a great source of jade, which the Xia prize among all else save perhaps bronze.
Of Xirong little is known by the Xia, save that through them come the wares and news of the "Daqin". They are the Syrians, Jews, Armenians, Parthians, and the myriad darker-skinned people that occupy the Silk Roads, grouped into a collective by the Xia, who are disinterested in matters beyond the periphery of Sinai. The continued trade between Xia and Nanman is attributed to the Xirong, who act as the proxies and middlemen, gaining great profits thereof.
Surrounded on all sides by barbarians, the Xia nevertheless maintain control over the warm and fertile lands seeded by three major rivers, the Wei, the Yangtze, and the Huai, the latter of which they derive their name from in the full title of Huaxia. The Xia are the most numerous among the peoples of Sinae, or China, having a prodigious capacity to breed. They are a moderately civilised people, and know of Rome, who they attach the appelation of "Daqin". It is their language that is most widespread among the peoples of Sinai, and one which Caesar came to use in his time in these lands.
After the deplorable assassination of Gaius Julius Caesar by the Senators of Rome, Jupiter elevated him first to divinity, then, seeing that the sumptuous life among the gods was not suitable for the still energetic Imperator, saw fit to grant him the gift of a second life; but Juno Regina, who loved Brutus dearly and did not wish for Caesar to return to Rome, dissuaded Jupiter from releasing the divine form of Caesar to his beloved homeland, instead directing her divine husband to birth him anew in the lands of Sinai, where he would be too far away from Rome to raise a violent hand against the men who had wronged him in his mortal life. Induced by these considerations, Jupiter sent the divine form of Caesar into the womb of a woman of...
The Nanman, a secretive people fond of poison and jungles, divided into a multitude of century-strong tribes that have never been united in known history. [LOCKED: Caesar's (and Roman) hatred of cannibals precludes this option.]
The Xirong, Xia's catch-all term for traders of the west, most likely to have a chance at returning to Rome through the Silk Roads, though the way is frought with danger of bandits, barbarians, and the badlands.
The Beidi, fierce horse-lords, independent as the wind of their frost-covered plains, who remain aloof of all attempts at civilising by the Xia.
The Xia, who consider themselves civilised and equal to Rome, most populous of the people of Sinai, themselves divided into many different Kingdoms.
The Dongyi, divided into three nations, considered by the Xia to be "civilised" barbarians, who nevertheless maintain a martial streak due to their eternal feud against the Beidi.
The Xirong, Xia's catch-all term for traders of the west, most likely to have a chance at returning to Rome through the Silk Roads, though the way is frought with danger of bandits, barbarians, and the badlands.
It was Caesar's opinion that to begin again in a setting most familiar to him would be most advantageous. Under this consideration, he chose a woman of the Xirong, or Western Barbarians, to be his parent, for he studied long on the customs of the Orients (which is to say the Armenians, the Parthians, and the Greeks of Asia Minor, the latter of whom populated much of the trade outposts in those lands), who were supposed to be his new target of conquest for Rome until his untimely death caused the end of that lofty ambition. He was fluent not only in Latin but Greek, which served as a lingua franca for most, if not all of Asia Minor. Knowing the culture and tongue of the place he was to be born was a great boon.
The family that was to take care of Caesar was...
Parthian, which is to say Persian. The Empire of the Orient was resplendent with the wealth of trade from spice and silk, the source of which, it turned out, was Sinae. Caesar's new father was a major merchant-prince in charge Khorsa, one of Parthia's many easternmost trade outposts. These relatively small mercantile microstates dot the Silk Roads in the wasteland, providing relief to the weary merchants that ply the dangerous routes connecting the East and the West.
Greek, a widespread race of mariners who favour the coastlands to the inland routes of the Silk Roads. Caesar's father was a more intrepid captain than most, setting his sights onto the jade-rich jungle coasts of the Nanman. His ship is of unusual make, built to last the rigours of the ocean, not the pond-skimmers that usually ferry men and cargo around the Mediterranean.
Syrian, the family of a retired career soldier who had been taken prisoner during a series of battles between the Governor of the Westernmost Commandery of the Xia and a coalition of the Silk Road states, fighting for money as a mercenary. After the war wound down, he was unceremoniously dumped out to the streets in the city of Thousand Blossoms (the Xia had... strange naming conventions) where he decided to settle down, eventually marrying a daughter of a fellow Syrian exile.
Greek, a widespread race of mariners who favour the coastlands to the inland routes of the Silk Roads. Caesar's father was a more intrepid captain than most, setting his sights onto the jade-rich jungle coasts of the Nanman. His ship is of unusual make, built to last the rigours of the ocean, not the pond-skimmers that usually ferry men and cargo around the Mediterranean.
Sixteen hooves strike against the dusty road that lead away from the docks of Numante. Pedestrians curse at the riders who in their haste neglect basic roadside etiquette, splattering the unfortunate freedmen and slaves with horse dung and sand as they leave the smell of fish and dockworkers behind, but the leader of the horsemen is smiling.
Nothing can go wrong for Landros, son of Nicius, on this day. At long last, he has become...
"A FATHER!" Captain Landros of the vessel Rhea shouts excitedly, startling his horse. He almost buckles away from his saddle, but the strength of his legs grips the body of his beleaguered mount, keeping him aright.
"Calm yourself, Lander!" One of the riders cries out. "Calm, by Hera! The way you ride, you will see the face of Hades before you see your child. You almost trampled that slave!"
"I am a father, Lynius! A father! Do you know what that means?"
"You will retire from the fleet, and try your hand in child-rearing?" Blue-eyed Timon of the Nors, the only one among the three companions of Landros to be able to keep up with his horse, says drily.
"An heir!" Landros says dreamily. "Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh! He will be a mighty hero, who will do great things. Legends will be sung of him by the priests of Apollonian temples to the heathen bards in Britain!"
The other riders exchange bemused glances.
"At least this means you will abandon your crazy plan of going all the way to Sinae yourself," Lynius grumbles. "Even you, Landros Bull-Fighter, wouldn't be so mad as to leave your child an orphan."
"Who says the child is being left behind?" Landros says.
"You- you wouldn't! A baby on a ship, that's..."
"Forget it, Lynius," Micah shakes his head. A Hellenised Jew, Micah was Landros' more even-headed partner with an eye for figures. He had been bought by Landros' father as a slave to do scribework, and later freed by Landros after a decade of dedicated service to the fleet. Emancipation of faithful slaves is not a rare act, certainly, but it was considered very generous. "Landros is mad enough to flaunt your sailors' superstition."
"Gods help us," Lynius groans, as Timon laughs at his companion's pained expression.
As the riders near the red-painted house of stone, they hear the unmistakable cries a child. Landros jumps out of his horse, leaving exasperated Lynius to hold the reins, and barges into the bedroom. Rhea - love of his life on land, as well as on the sea - nurses a slick-haired baby, newly expelled into the world. She smiles tiredly at her large husband's excitement, offering the bundle of newborn to her husband.
"A name, a name!" Landros exclaims as he cradles the baby. "I will need a name for the child. Alexandros? Mithridates?"
"You don't even know if the child is a son or a daughter, you big oaf," Lynius says.
Landros shrugs. "I don't need to see his balls to see he's manlier than your boy-buggered arse, Lynius. His name will be..."
At this point, the newborn Caesar raised his hand, cutting the unreasonably tall man's endless talking. "My name is Caesar."
Caesar, knowing that his true name would be unusual among the Greeks, stood silent as he watched his new father bumble out a list of names.
Custom name
When it was realised by Caesar that his new Greek father was of indecisive mind in the naming of his newborn son, Caesar made a motion accompanied by a gurgle in the likeness of a pleased baby's while in the mention of Alexandros. Now Caesar knew that hubris was a downward path, having witnessed the fall of Pompey, who had desired the cognomen of Magnus in imitation of the great Macedonian king. The renowned Roman general and once brother-in-law of Caesar sought much, and was brought down so low by his own cliens, who in their treachery beheaded their patronus Pompey and offered the offending article to Caesar.
He had also in his life strived to create a strong and powerful Roman Republic, ruled according to the will of the Plebeians and, by extension, the Senate. To be king was un-Roman and anti-Plebeian, for the title of Rex Romae had been unused since the overthrow of Tarquin the Proud. It would go against everything that Caesar had strived for in his time as dictator in perpetuum.
However, he was no longer of Roman birth. His own father was not a citizen of that proud Republic of the seven hills, but a member of the mercantile elite within a Parthian satrapy, unbeholden to the common people. Caesar was also by this point half divine, as divine as his reborn human form would allow him to be, for it is widely known that no human can bear a fully divine figure and live, the strain of containing such a great essence too strenuous for the mortal form to withstand.
Thus did Caesar resolve to seek the title of King, after the footsteps of the young Macedonian Basileus. His focus would not be merely that of India, but a greater terrestrial jewel that lay further east - Sinae, land of silk and straight roads. The Xia presumptuously considered Rome to be Da Qin, an equal to their Middle Kingdom. Caesar would make them earn that distinction.
Yet did Caesar in his humility vow never to seek the position of Rex, or Basileus for the Greeks, as he had in his previous mortal life. He would become a patron of the People, granting civilisation - Roman civilisation - to the barbarians of the far east, for to travel west back to Rome without strong allies would be to court Juno's heavenly wrath.
Thus did Caesar resolve to seek the title of King, after the footsteps of the young Macedonian Basileus. His focus would not be merely that of India, but a greater terrestrial jewel that lay further east - Sinae, land of silk and straight roads. The Xia presumptuously considered Rome to be Da Qin, an equal to their Middle Kingdom. Caesar would make them earn that distinction.
Even as an infant, Caesar showed great precocity, displaying great discernment of character and strength of limb that outshone those children senior to him. His father, Landros, a well-to-do captain of a Grecian merchant house, spared no expense in finding tutors for his child.
Under the watchful eyes of his tutor Aetius the grammarian (a freedman of Armenian origin), the young Caesar studied the trivium and quadrivium, the seven artes liberales, as is expected of all freeborn. These consisted of grammar, logic, and rhetoric (the trivium) as well as arithmetic, geometry, the theory of music, and astronomy (the quadrivium). Because Caesar had in his past life been tutored by the famed Gnipho, he made rapid progress; by the age of five Aetius declared that he had nothing left to teach the young Caesar, who was called Alexandros.
It was with Venicius, a former gladiator, that young Caesar sparred with as he shed the baby-fat and the first twinges of boyhood appeared. Caesar had been a general and a soldier, a man who would often fight side by side with the common soldiery of the 10th Legion. While his mind remained sharp, the body of little Alexandros was sluggish. So it was with great pain (from muscle use and the wounds sustained while dueling against the taciturn Venicius) that Caesar re-learned the physical side of battle.
His own father, Landros, was often absent from young Alexandros' life, spending most of his time in voyages for the sake of House Harkonni, a Greek-Suomic family with roots in exiled Varangian nobles. In his time as a peerless Roman, Caesar had neither time nor compulsion to learn the arts of navigation upon Poseidon's realm. He knew that Alexandros would be expected to take up the family trade, and plied the nautical studies, though it would remain his least favourite skill, owing not the least to his antipathy toward Jupiter's briny brother, who surely harboured a grudge against the Romans for their part in destroying Carthage.
When Caesar had some time for himself between these exhausting educational regimen, he...
spent time in the docks of Numante, your new birth-city, speaking with sailors from foreign ports and listening to vendors showing off exotic wares. To a Roman, the sea is a terrifying menace - all of Rome remember the shadow of Hannibal that engulfed Italia all those years ago from the sea. For the Greeks, the sea is their mistress, a partner in life experiencing the ups and downs of life together. By familiarising yourself with the sea, you hoped to better understand the temper of that most fickle of environs.
made time for your mother, Rhea, who was of poor constitution. It was said among the house servants that his birth itself was a miracle. Many were the times that Lynius suggested to your father he get himself a more healthy wife, and all those times Landros rebuffed him. Even so, she was often lonely, for her husband would spend months and years in the sea with very little letters in between. To your endlessly bedridden mother you were a dutiful son, the model of filial piety.
used the time for even more physical improvement. Your divine essence and previous life's memory gives you an endless wellspring of experience, but when it came to actual combat, your mortal shell required continued improvement.
entertained the gathered throngs in public forums with your dry wit and intelligence, arguing and bantering with streetside philosophers and local luminaries. Your wisdom belonging to those beyond his years caused great amazement among the city's learned, eventually resulting in being summoned to the court of Ardashir, Satrap-King under the Parthian King of Kings.
made time for your mother, Rhea, who was of poor constitution. It was said among the house servants that his birth itself was a miracle. Many were the times that Lynius suggested to your father he get himself a more healthy wife, and all those times Landros rebuffed him. Even so, she was often lonely, for her husband would spend months and years in the sea with very little letters in between. To your endlessly bedridden mother you were a dutiful son, the model of filial piety.
You watch the sweatdrops as they roll from her brow, their pace positively glacial.
Your mother is sleeping. A brief respite from her conscious state when she is assaulted with the thousand and one subtle maladies of this nameless illness. Unspecified pain, cramps, fever, heightened sensitivity, dryness in the mouth...
She has been weak like this as long as you can remember. You are not deaf, and certainly not blind to the looks the servants give you when they think you aren't looking at them. You have heard the rumours. She was always willowy, perhaps on the frail side, but not outright sick. Not like this.
The sickness - that came with your pregnancy.
You were able to piece things together from the fragments that you picked up in your infancy, before the servants realised that you understood every single word they spoke. The numerous doctors, the small fortune your father - wealthy as he is, he is still no noble - spent in his search for a cure, even the lavish burnt offerings of rams and bulls in temples of gods, both old and new. Nothing helped.
Juno, Queen of the Gods, Matriarch of mothers. Guardian of childbirth. The connection is clear in your mind. This is just one of her petty vengeful acts, sent down on those who you care about. Was it her love for Brutus that drove her to such heights of senseless spite? Even this far away from Rome, news of major events trickle in sooner or later. Octavianus, your foster son, ruled in Rome. Brutus and his fellow conspirators are dead.
You are not sure how you feel about that. It isn't as if you planned to retire so early, and the fact that Marcus Antonius dragged Cleopatra (one of your many lovers) into a rebellion is... irksome. And you aren't wholly happy about Octavianus, even though he rightfully recognised your divinity. Not after he killed Caesarion.
Rhea mumbles in her sleep. She whispers your name. Not the Greek name you took for yourself when you entered the world once more, but your true name.
"Julius," she sighs, her Latin thick with Grecian accent.
A servant moves to dab her perspiration away with cloth, but you stop her arm. "She sleeps," you whisper softly. "Let her rest a bit further."
The handmaid nods, unwilling to disobey outright the order of the man in the household, even if he is barely beyond infancy. They know that it is unlikely your mother will be able to have another child. And your father's reluctance in divorcing her is legendary, which makes you the sole heir.
Your mother shifts in her sleep. Even such displays of filial piety does not appease Juno, as far as you can tell. The gods are cruel.
"Young Master." Micah tugs the hem of your shirt. He whispers in a low voice, mindful not to disturb your mother's rest. "Your father's ship has been sighted. Venicius is forming up the household guard to greet him in the docks."
There is nothing to be done here. Lead the procession to greet your father as he disembarks, as is proper for the man of the household.
You take a good, long look at your mother once more, patting her sweat-slick hand reassuringly. Her breathing seems to ease a bit, her chest rising and falling less labouriously. Perhaps Juno is capable of a little heart, after all. "Goodbye, mother," you tell her on your way out the doorway. "Father will find the cure. One day."
...
The household guard, as Aetius so fancifully put, consists of three able-bodied slaves armed with simple sheathed shortswords that Venicius sourced from... somewhere. Though moderately wealthy, you aren't a noble in this life. It's a flip from your life as a member of the gens Julia, when you lived as the member of one of the most ancient families among the patricians, yet endured a spartan lifestyle due to Sulla's confiscation of the family wealth.
The armed slaves jog toward the docks with Venicius in the lead, you following with a more undignified run to compensate for your shorter legs. While Venicius was hired to tutor you in combat, he also took to himself in "arranging the security of the perimeter", as he put it. Stuff and nonsense, you think. The one-eyed gladiator was overly paranoid, a fact you used to tease him with multiple times. Why would anyone want to attack the house of a fairly well to do captain working for a largely apolitical merchant family?
As ever, his only cryptic answer: "Why, indeed?"
Poor man. Life in the arena must have shredded his nerves.
In no time at all the familiar hubbub of the docks envelopes you, as does the stench. You can stomach the smell of the sea as Alexandros. You were born here, after all.
"And there is your father's ship," Venicius says as he points. Even as he looks for your father's ship, he is wary. Your father's ship is unmistakable among the small fishing vessels and other Mediterranean crafts that bob and sway in the docks. After all, it is...
an obelisk ship, custom-built for the sole purpose of carrying the gigantic obelisks from Aegyptus to Rome. It still boggles your mind that these things were built to ferry gigantic stone penises weighing hundreds of tons. More than the how, it is the why that puzzles you. It is the jewel of the Harkonni fleet, carrying almost a quarter of the fleet's full cargo limit. You should ask how your father nabbed the behemoth of a ship sometime.
a Carthaginean warship, built in the heydays of that long-gone nemesis of Rome. Unlike a trireme, which is the vast majority of vessels that swim in the Mare Nostrum, this thing was apparently built as a true ocean-going vessel, able to withstand the harsher waves in the waters away from the coasts. Your father uses it to protect the other cargo-haulers in the Harkonni merchant fleet.
A multi-sail square vessel said to have been built by the people of the far-away Xia, as a part of their "treasure ship expedition" if you would believe the sailors' gossip. Everything about this ship screams "foreignness", from the red square-sheeted sails to the sheer wideness of the ship. Interestingly enough, the ship has multiple compartments. This will help confine damage done to a part of the ship to the local area only, improving survival chances for the voyagers. You suppose that only ships this large would benefit from such redundancies in design, since triremes will sink straight away even with a bit of a leak.
Write-in
a Carthaginean warship, built in the heydays of that long-gone nemesis of Rome. Unlike a trireme, which is the vast majority of vessels that swim in the Mare Nostrum, this thing was apparently built as a true ocean-going vessel, able to withstand the harsher waves in the waters away from the coasts. Your father uses it to protect the other cargo-haulers in the Harkonni merchant fleet.
The deceres was an attempt at creating a ship able to navigate the harsher waters outside of the Mediterranean. It was well known among mariners and shipbuilders that the heavier the ship, the better they withstand unfavourable weather. It was why the triremes - "threes" - was set aside in favour of the quinquiremes - "fives". The ships were named according to the number of rowers necessary per oar.
What the Carthaginians did was to take that logic to an extreme and create what is perhaps better described as a floating fortress of wood, requiring fourty rowers per oar - a tessarakonteres. The result of the brainstorming of Carthago's best and brightest, it a wooden behemoth that was two hundred and eighty cubits long, thirty-eight cubits from one side to the other, her height fourty-eight cubits from the sealine to the gunwale. This ship could remain serene even in heavy weather in the waters not enclosed by Europe and Africa, its massive weight guaranteeing stability.
And there, the Carthaginian shipmasters stumbled to a problem. Heavier ship meant an exponential increase in the power needed to move it. The sails in those times were inferior to modern weaving, prone to tear and wear, and unable to harness the kind of wind power that was required. It is said that four thousand rowers is what it took to get the ship into motion, supported by a supplementary crew of another four hundred for the miscellaneous tasks that needs to be performed for a ship to keep running. The designers had not taken into account that a long ocean voyage would require a great amount of food and water, made even greater by needing to feed said four thousand four hundred crew.
The Harkonni were a fabulously wealthy merchant family. Their trade alliances spread from the highest courts of the Semitic peoples, to the marble halls of Rome, all the way to the edge of the known world in Britannia. They dealt in all the wares that the patrician of any nation lust for, as well as the hulking grain barges that ferried the yearly tribute from Egypt to Rome. Yet, even in all their splendour, the Harkonni knew that to attempt manning such a ship was madness.
The Carthaginians clearly realised the folly of their ocean-going ambition, for it was never used during the Punic Wars. Caesar would surely have heard of its presence in any naval battle otherwise. It was only with the erection of additional masts of sails of the highest quality and craftsmanship that the gigantic watercraft would move, and even all those sails had to be augmented by a complement of two hundred rowers who served primarily to adjust the speed of the vessel as it neared coasts and ports. That did give the Carthaginian "warship" more space for marines, food, water, and cargo space, which made Rhea as unassailable as an island full of soldiers.
Caesar wondered idly how things would have gone with his British invasions if he'd had such a ship.
"Alexandros!" Landros waves from the gunwale, a huge smile etched on his face. He is holding a bundle of indeterminate under his muscle-bound arm, yet another gift for you from the voyage.
It has been eight months since you last saw him. Apparently, this journey was to get enough profits from India to convince the Harkonni patriarch of the feasibility of a voyage all the way to Sinae. You do not have to look at his radiant face to know that he's succeeded. Your father is a great navigator, and he has never lost ship under his command, even one so unwieldy as a "fourty".
His character, on the other hand...
leaves much to be desired. He is like a child, always full of mindless enthusiasm. It is unbecoming for a person as prestigious as the father of Caesar to be so... puppy-like. You heard from uncle Lynius that he rode like a madman to witness your birth, instead of waiting outside the room until the baby was prepared to be seen by the man of the household. Self control is a Roman virtue.
is endearing. He is an eternally youthful man, despite being near fourty, unlike his Roman father. Caesar remembers his first father as a thoroughly patrician figure. Emotionally distant, politically focused, and an early death that pushed him early into becoming the paterfamilias. Was it a congenital difference in the race of humans that pushed Romans to be so dour?
Custom
Both. Appearances, not to mention force of habit, cause us to be outwardly disapproving of Father's mannerisms, though this, at least partly, is to protect father from the harsher, gossiping tongues that lesser men seem to difficult to control. Deep down, we cannot help but feel a certain fondness for this man, who has given his all for his family's wellbeing. [CVSTOM]
You smile slightly at the unrestrained energy of your father. The people of the orient have always been so exuberant, lacking the Roman Stoicism that pervaded the greatest society in the world. They were temperamental, given to fits of emotional outbursts - symptoms of the soft and comfortable lives they led in their warm climes.
And that was fine. The other races of men did not have the divine responsibility to maintain order in this chaotic world, after all.
That did not mean you despised your father. He was affable, if something of a buffoon, and he commanded the love and respect of his crew, a sign of goodness in any man. Very good traits for a naval officer, in fact, as they have to live with their men for extended periods of time, isolated within their island of wood. Despite his frequent voyages leaving him little time to be with you, he has already made a greater impression on you than your previous father ever did.
"Father," you greet him cordially as he rushes down the gangplank. "It is good to see you well. Is uncle Lynius not with you?" Lynius was your father's second in command, a nautical Roman - something of an oddity. Not actually an uncle of yours by blood, but he was a family friend, as you understood it.
Your father attempts to hug you, but rebuffed by your serious aura, sheepishly makes do with a headpat. "Every time I come back home, you seem more and more a full grown man. Lynius is probably supervising the sailors in organising the trade goods we brought back from India. Always so serious, that one, rather like you actually. There's plenty of time before the Harkonni will send their men here, I don't know what all his fuss is about."
"Aetius is a good teacher. And Cae- I am a prodigy, after all. You said yourself that I would become great, if you remember." Your habit of referring to yourself in the third person almost outed your true name occasionally. It wouldn't be the safest of things to claim being Julius Caesar, given your current place in Parthian society.
"Did I?" Your father scratches his shaggy head.
"Even your son remembers his birth better than you, old man," Timon, the blue-eyed Varangian and the head of your father's marine contingent, mock-punches your father's side. "Alexandros! Good to see you as always. So well spoken for your age! You really might make a Hero like your father constantly boasts about. It is said to be a sign of divinity to mature so quickly."
"And he will!" your father boasts shamelessly. "Look at him, five years old and already more of a man than you when you were twice his age, Timon. All he needs now is to know a woman, and he'll surpass his own father."
"Uncle Lynius would say it requires taking a man to become a man," you remark dryly, eliciting laughter from the two men. It was no secret that Lynius was fond of boy actors, spending a great portion of his not insignificant wage in wooing those young and not so innocent men that frequent the theater.
The moment of mutual mirth ends. "Right, that's enough lollygaggin' in this crowded, crime-filled, disease-ridden docks," Venicius cuts in, his one good eye scanning constantly on the move, giving ocular pat-downs to passers-by. He wrinkles his nose at a dockside whore who makes eyes at him. "Get a move on, Landros. Lynius can wait here for the Harkonni fat-arse to arrive with his guards. You aren't needed here for the transportation of the goods."
"Actually, Captain Landros and I will be right where we are," Timon says, crossing his arms. "I am in charge of the protection of this ship."
"And you aren't on the ship now, are ye?" Venicius growls. "Look under your sandal, Varangi. Witness the solidity of its foundations, the watery muck under your soles. Does it look like wooden planks? Has the sun's reflection from the waves blinded you? I don't care what you fish-fuckers do on the ship, but once your captain is on land, he's my charge. I don't need him getting killed by some two-bit assassin hired by the Jews."
"I- Jews?" Timon is struck speechless. "What do they have to do with anything?" Then he turns to you. "Is he always this paranoid?"
You shrug. To hear his tale, Venicius lost his eye when he was moonlighting as a bodyguard for some rich noble in Acre, while he was in between his gladiatorial matches. That rich noble turned out to be some Greek who was tangentially involved in the Roman conquest of the Hasmonean dynasty, an autonomous Jewish state after the disintegration of the Seleucids. The Jews were famously long-memoried and carried grudges that lasted millennia. One had only to ask an Egyptian living anywhere near Judea to learn that.
"Venicius has a history with the Jews. He almost died defending his patron from a Maccabean sicarius. He did earn his freedom after the grateful noble bought him away from the arena, but... I don't think he's ever been the same."
"That said, all it takes is a dagger between the ribs to end your life. It's good that we have Venicius doing all the worrying for our sake. Let's return home and leave Lynius to deal with the Harkonni representative."
"That doesn't mean that we're being stalked by Jews every day, Venicius. Hestia's hearth, we are in our own hometown. I've lived here for five years without being murdered, I think we can safely wait five minutes for the Harkonni representative."
Custom
"That said, all it takes is 23 daggers between the ribs to end your life," you note sagely as you clamber up your father's back and onto his shoulder, legs dangling to either side of his head - the best seat in the house. Landros doesn't mind the dirtiness of your sandals, happy at one of your rare concessions on physical contact. "It's good that we have Venicius doing all the worrying for our sake. Let's return home and leave Lynius to deal with the Harkonni representative."
"Aye, that poor Caesar had no idea what was coming to him," Venicius says.
"They say he killed ten men with his own hands before he was felled by Brutus," Timon says with admiration. You feel a blush creeping up to your cheek at the blatant falsehood propagated by Oct- Augustus. Not even close to the truth, but that the tale of your death is well known even here is a testament to the enduring mark you left in the world, you suppose. Great men live forever, if not in physical form, in the immortality of their names. And you, Julius Caesar, are certainly one of the greats. You inflate with some pride - subdued and not outwardly visible, as is proper - as you remember your outstanding feats, martial and political, and the trying times that you experienced with the good old X Legion.
That brings you back. It was nice having a dependable corps of heavy infantry, made all the more powerful by intelligent and trustworthy lieutenants. You ruefully smile at the memory of Titus Labienus, your favourite Legate, a commander of men almost as capable as yourself. Even you have to admit that he surpassed you in the matter of handling cavalry. He would have been your choice for the next commander of X Legion had he not abandoned you for Pompeius. Men of strong moral character can be difficult to wield, you think, especially when doing something they consider heinous... such as crossing the Rubicon.
"Speaking of security," Timon says as your group walks homeward under the watchful gaze of Venicius. "I have to speak with Marneon and his men after dinner. Their contract expired with that last voyage, and they wanted to know if we will be renewing it for our journey to the end of the world."
Landros thoughtfully noms your left leg and blows into it, making you almost break your poker face. It is a close thing, you admit, but your mental fortitude (and a mental image of how your mother would think about such a public outburst) keeps you strong. "Marneon is a good fighter," Your father says in between tickling your leg with his nibbles, "but I'm not sure how well his men will fare on land. The journey to Sinae might involve more land conflicts than shipboard ones."
"In which case you would want men with heavy armour and horses," Timon agrees. Marneon's company was outfitted only with linothorax, a kind of light body armour made with linen and cloth. It was lightweight, cheap, and offered decent protection for its price, perfect for the kind of onboard action expected of marines. Heavy armour made men clumsy, and the kind of soldiers that wore them were rarely used to the ever-rocking ships out in the sea.
"I know of three other mercenary companies, but only one of them are slaves... this will be pricey," he continues. Unlike the citizen-recruited legions of glorious Rome, the orientals entrusted the safety of their borders to slave soldiers, augmented by mercenaries pampered with money and whores to keep them docile by their nominal owners. Timon was one such mercenary, and Marneon's company - who crewed the Rhea as her marines - was composed of Armenian slave soldiers. "Horsemen don't like the sea all that much, and the same goes for the soldiers with metal armours. Liable to drowning and such. You sure that the Harkonni is willing to fund this expedition?"
Landros nods, his face uncharacteristically serious. "I told him I would quit otherwise."
Timon blanches. "You didn't."
"Mmhmm." Your father has long dreamed of going to Sinae, you know, but that desire wasn't enough to push him to threatening his employer. You know only one thing that can tilt this man to such recklessness, and that is your mother's health. Oh, you've heard of the rumours, from sun-browned sailors and peddlers of the supposedly mystical - that the Elixir of Life existed in the far east.
"Why are you this way?" Timon says, hand applied to face.
Landros gives him a friendly slap on his back in response. "Don't sweat the small details, straw-hair, you're slowly becoming Lynius," he jokes. "We're going to the end of the earth, remember? We must spare no expenses!" Your father is surprisingly good at keeping a mask of joviality at times, despite his usual bullish honesty. Was it because you were his son that you could feel the twinge of sadness, or was it an aftereffect of your divinity?
Timon's expression is that of a long suffering lieutenant. "Well, we'll need to hire a mercenary band, then. Slave owners tend to prefer short contracts, not prolonged ones. They won't appreciate having to wait forever for our return. If we return." He squints suspiciously at Landros. "How are you planning to bring the you-know-what back to your wife? Fly across the ocean?"
"Simple. She's coming with."
A moment of silence.
"Lynius will kill you," Timon says matter-of-factly. Women on ships were even worse bad luck than children.
Your father nods.
"So I have to negotiate the hire new soldiers who will be traveling on a ship all the way to Sinae, who will not be the usual marine contractors, but cavalry and armoured soldiers like we're a fucking army. And they will be sailing on a Carthaginian ship with a woman and a child. You don't make things very easy for me, captain."
"Hey, that's what we pay you for."
"You don't pay me, the cheap-arse Harkonni does."
Landros shrugs. "Same thing. Oh, and that merc company you plan to hire? Whichever it is, get it done by today."
"The ship won't be restocked for another two weeks," Timon says, beginning to look suspicious. "There wouldn't be any reason to rush things, unless..."
"So, I may have had to accept the Harkonni's revised budget plan. We may have to resort to, ah, liberating stock from settlements occasionally for financial upkeep."
Ignoring the groan of despondency from the blue-eyed Varangian (and the illegality of piracy), you consider the options on hand. The mercenary band would likely be long term companions on this journey, and you didn't want them to pick a group without having your input. Timon mentioned three candidate companies, and the size of your father's ship put most of the small-fries out of the competition. The Rhea had enough room to comfortably sail with a full legion in its hold. Yes, you are certain you know which mercenary company Timon is thinking of. And out of those, the best choice would be...
the Varangian sellswords from the north, led by a man named Cnut. The Varangians were raiders and slavers who frequented the Germanic coasts. You have heard mention of their fighting prowess in your time among the Gauls, and if they are anything like the Nervii, they would make for great warriors. Unfortunately, they are also likely quite undisciplined, preferring to fight as individuals instead as a part of a unit. [1,000 Raiders]
the group calling themselves the Sacred Band of Carthago. Of course, the real Sacred Band of Carthago was destroyed long ago together with that detestable city. These men are probably not even fully Punic in blood. They were famed for the splendour of their arms, and the slowness and orderliness of their march. Their most common clients were the various satraps in the Parthian Empire who waged war among themselves when the King of Kings was busy with external affairs, so they are experienced in the arts of war. Their primary equipment was the phalanx - powerful, but inflexible. [800 Phalanx Spearmen]
The Five Hundred, the successor to the Ten Thousand, a coalition of different mercenary companies cobbled together by Cyrus the Younger all those centuries ago. Reduced in number but not prestige, they are known for their emphasis in combined arms tactics, not specialising in one particular thing like other mercenary bands - a legacy of their international origin. Their lack of specialisation and focus on generalisation makes them rather similar to the soldiers of the Roman legion. [500 totes-not-legio]
[Write-in]
The Five Hundred, the successor to the Ten Thousand, a coalition of different mercenary companies cobbled together by Cyrus the Younger all those centuries ago. Reduced in number but not prestige, they are known for their emphasis in combined arms tactics, not specialising in one particular thing like other mercenary bands - a legacy of their international origin. Their lack of specialisation and focus on generalisation makes them rather similar to the soldiers of the Roman legion. [500 totes-not-legio]
While they are the smallest and possibly the most costly force to hire, the Five Hundred are a known quantity. They have a pedigree stretching back to their foundation as a combination of many disparate mercenary bands, raised by Cyrus the Younger to contest the throne away from his brother. Their exploits and march back to Greece is known by every aoidos, who still sing of the hardships these brave men lived through under the leadership of Xenophon the Spartan in their performances of the Anabasis.
More importantly, they are a combined arms force, like your beloved legion.
A phalanx is composed of lines of men carrying spears. But not just any spears - these are spears that are double or even triple the length of their wielders' height. In the time of the Ancient Greeks, the length of the spear and the level of discipline (ie how evenly and orderly they marched) decided the battle. Alexander himself conquered Greece and later the world with his father's Macedonian phalangites, who carried the sarissa, which was essentially an Even Longer Spear. It wasn't a matter of simply lengthening the spear, of course. The longer the implement, the more unwieldy they became, and the more training the soldiers needed to field them properly. This is why Philip II of Macedon had to invest so much resources on the phalangites that his son would put to good use. Truly, the phalanx was indefatigable when opposed from the front.
This is where the superb flexibility of the Roman legion came into play. The illusion of the Greek Phalangites' invincibility was shattered by the Romans (an inherently superior people), when the more flexible manipular formation triumphed during the Third Macedonian War. Your legion was composed of the post-Marian Reform cohorts instead of the maniples of the young Republic that faced the phalanx, but the principle of the Roman army remained - emphasising tactical flexibility by delegating command authority to field officers who lead smaller units within the legion, instead of bundling thousands of men together and making them march in straight lines and hoping the enemy was foolish enough to go for a frontal attack.
A standard Roman legion operates in smaller sub-units of the cohorts (480 men), which are then divided into that of the century (80 men), which, in turn, is again separated into contubernium (8 men). The century, arguably the backbone of any legion, fights as a unit, marches as a unit, and camps as a unit; each century carries with it all the arms and accoutrements required to feed and maintain it as a capable fighting unit. Thus, each century is a tactically independent military unit in and of themselves, led by the centurions who are typically raised from among the rank and file of the soldiers, elevated for their battlefield valour or signs of leadership. These men, despite being officers, fight in the front lines together with the century that they lead - a practice that results in high fatality rate, but also keeps the flow of promotions for the worthies among the common soldiery. The centurion is not merely a puppet who repeat the command sent from above his chain of command - he is the field officer, the lord over his eighty-troop unit once the battle begins in earnest and all battlefield plans are thrown out the window.
There, too, is the fact that a standard milites, the regular footsoldiers of the Legion, is a true multi-role combatant. When the Republic was still young, the citizen-soldiers of Rome were divided according to their economic status. Because all soldiers had to be self sufficient in terms of armaments and gear, the poor would serve as light skirmishers, relegated to throwing javelins, while the wealthier types who could afford actual armour served as regular infantry. That is no longer the case with the Marian reforms. Now, each miles - the basic rank and file legionary - regardless of their socioeconomic status prior to joining the legion is given standardised armaments. Two javelins, to throw at the enemy as they marched closer. The gladius, its design adapted from Iberian swordsmiths, well-suited for the thrust-and-pull motion that proved so fatal to the unarmoured barbarians. Metal armour provided to all proper legionary. This meant that a post-Marian miles could perform as a veles, throwing javelins as the troops march to engage the enemy, then switch to their shortswords to stab the foe before retreating behind the safety of their shields, as safe as any triarius.
The only drawback is their low number. You may have to work on recruiting more soldiers on your journey. You have raised legions before, so with the right resources and a malleable race of men, it is not impossible to work around the limitations of their un-Romanness, with the Five Hundred veterans serving as the core.
"The Five Hundred would be our best bet," you declare, bouncing lightly on your father's shoulders. "Clearing a route all the way to Sinae necessitates having an adaptable force that can react to most situations. The Varangians are too undisciplined, no offence to you, Timon, and the Carthagians are a one-trick pony." You're not sure what a one trick pony is, having never heard the term before yourself, but the intent seems to get across to the adults.
"The boy knows what he's talking about," Venicius says, a smug smile playing on ugly scar-crossed face. Ex-slave gladiator or not, he was a Roman. And all Romans enjoy putting the lesser races of men down to their rightful place in the hierarchy of mankind. "Spearmen are all well and good, until they get attacked from the side or even behind. You ever tried turning your line in an orderly manner with a stick twice your height? Difficult in the arena, nigh impossible in the chaos of the battlefield."
"As famous as they are, the Five Hundred are few in number," Timon points out. "Unless we give up on hiring some cavalry companies, we'll be stuck with a small number of infantrymen."
"An outnumbered force of highly trained and well motivated heavy infantry can withstand the attack of a rabble double or even triple their number. The Five Hundred will be well worth the money spent," you reassure him. "As for horsemen..."
We'll deal with the low number of infantrymen. A mounted element is almost essential in any military force, not only for their shock value in charging situations, but for scouting and forcing enemies to reposition.
Let's skip with the cavalry, and look for more infantry units. Mercenaries who are wealthy enough to be mounted soldiers tend to cost a lot for the relative few number, so it would be more economical to go for even more infantrymen.
We'll deal with the low number of infantrymen. A mounted element is almost essential in any military force, not only for their shock value in charging situations, but for scouting and forcing enemies to reposition.
"If studying under Aetius makes you this smart, maybe I should have given that schooling thing a chance," Timon chuckles. Aetius was technically your junior - in your life as Caesar, you were schooled by the illustrious Gnipho, who later taught Aetius as well. Strange how these things went. "Since you have such strong feelings about the soldiers we'll be traveling with, tell me your preference among the mounted companies. We can probably hire only one since someone," he gives Landros a look, "failed to negotiate a proper budget for a voyage as impossible as this. Still, if that raid goes well..."
War booties were one of the primary methods of paying troops. Even for the salaried Roman legionaries, looting was a major morale booster.
"Because of the recent wars between Numante and the city state of Edad, there are many soldiers for hire," Timon muses. "Ten years ago, we had to take what we could get, but these days, we have the luxury of picking and choosing."
Gallic horsemen led by one Ambiorix, two hundred in number. During your campaign in Gaul, the primary source of cavalry was friendly Gallic tribes. They eschew the use of "cowardly" weapons, preferring instead to use the horse to crash into the enemy and then dismounting to engage in heated warfare. The Gauls were accomplished horsemen compared to the Romans, who never produced a cavalry tradition of particular renown. [400 Gallic cavalry]
The Numidians are by far the best horsemen in Africa, showing great expertise and agility in in their control over their beasts. Their mounts are small but sturdy things, able to endure great distances in speed, a trait the Numidians readily employ in their harassing tactics against the enemy, where they charge en masse toward enemy formation, lob their missiles and javelins, then wheel around to return from whence they came before renewing their attacks. Their lack of armour and heavier weapons makes them unsuitable for cavalry-versus-cavalry combat, but they are great at harassing slow infantrymen. You wonder what brought them so far east, when their services are usually sought after eagerly by Rome as auxiliaries. [200 Numidian light cavalry]
The Germans are fierce warriors, against whom the Gauls do not even pretended to compete with in bravery. They have a unique view on the constitution of the cavalry, in that every horse-rider is paired with a light infantryman who will run alongside his mounted partner, until the conjoining of the battle. Then the footsoldier, armed with a kind of spear or pike, clings to the side of the horse by grappling the mane, protecting the flank of the rider and stabbing at the enemy. They proved especially effective against enemy cavalry, as you found from the German mercenaries under your employ during the Gallic War. It is not unusual to see Germans so far from home - their native lands are cold and inhospitable, regularly driving them outwards in search for a better habitat. This particular group is led by a chieftain, Hermann, who also bring with him a number of dependents along with the soldiers. [120 light cavalry, 120 light infantry, 250 civilians (women, children, etc)]
The prowess of the Parthian mounted archers are well known throughout Rome, not the least due to the disastrous campaign led by one of your former partners of the Triumvirate, Crassus. Carrhae remains to this day a painful blot in the history of Rome. These men are magnificent equestrians to be able to direct their horses with nothing but pressure from their legs, while they freely turn their upper body about to rain arrows on their enemies. The Parthian state keeps a tight grip on these accomplished individuals for use in their militaries, as they are the source of their power. Thus it is not without some reservation that you consider the hiring of this small group of Parthian cavalrymen, whose leader with the face-obscuring helm goes by the name of "Azadan". [50 Parthian mounted archers]
Gallic horsemen led by one Ambiorix, two hundred in number. During your campaign in Gaul, the primary source of cavalry was friendly Gallic tribes. They eschew the use of "cowardly" weapons, preferring instead to use the horse to crash into the enemy and then dismounting to engage in heated warfare. The Gauls were accomplished horsemen compared to the Romans, who never produced a cavalry tradition of particular renown. [400 Gallic cavalry]
After overseeing the mustering of his troops with his father, a process that took two days, Caesar immediately made to embark on a short voyage with the soldiers, under the authority of his father. The reason for this was threefold - (1) to iron out the communication problems between the two mercenary companies, who were complete strangers against each other, and unused to working together, (2) to ascertain the true capabilities of the mercenaries, and (3) to gain additional finances for the journey to the end of the world.
There was another motive in play for the young Caesar, unbeknownst to the other commanders in the raid, which was to establish himself as a competent leader of men. Caesar knew that in his current diminutive form he would be underestimated, overlooked, and treated as a burden. It was imperative that he made a clear mark in this attack. Until then, he would have to use the voting powers of Timon and Venicius in the war council to force your command decision.
The forces arrayed behind Caesar were as follows:
One (1) Rhea, your father's Carthaginian prototype warship, equipped with eight (8) ship-board ballistae distributed throughout the ship.
One (1) heavy infantry company, consisting of roughly five hundred (521) men.
One (1) Gallic cavalry company, consisting of roughly four hundred (408) riders.
After consulting with Aetius, who was familiar with the various settlements of the orient, Caesar picked as his target, the...
...small coastal village of Tis, under the protection of Vahbarz, Satrap of Sattagydia. Your forces would be overkill against this barely defended settlement, but it was wealthy (for its size, nothing huge) thanks to the beginning of a trickle of traders. In a century or two, and with some infrastructural investment, it might have become the next Caesarea. Your attack will spell the end to such lofty ambition. Ardashir, the Satrap over Numante, is currently feuding with Vahbarz.
...pirate cove frequented by Arab pirates (of the Azd tribe) by the Parthian border region of Mazun. These dusky raiders are more of a minor irritant than a true threat to the Harkonni trade fleet with their dinky little pondfloaters, but their capital will likely have better defences than their small ships can muster. Aetius was unsure how much wealth remained in the pirates' capital.
...Punic colony of Suerna, founded by the Carthaginians who fled the destruction of their city. The mercenary company Sacred Band of Carthago recruit heavily in this and other Punic settlements, implicitly putting the city under their protection. Attacking this city will incur their wrath. It is, like many trade cities of the orient, very wealthy.
Custom suggestion
Note: The Sacred Band of Carthago available in Numante numbered 800. This is not indicative of their full strength, which is currently spread out in various battlefields. Satraps are a very fighty bunch even if they are nominally part of the same empire.
...Punic colony of Suerna, founded by the Carthaginians who fled the destruction of their city. The mercenary company Sacred Band of Carthago recruit heavily in this and other Punic settlements, implicitly putting the city under their protection. Attacking this city will incur their wrath. It is, like many trade cities of the orient, very wealthy.
"Suerna is a port city with an estimated population of ten thousand people. The perimeter of the settlement is walled, with patrols of city watch keeping vigil for pirates. It is by no means an easy picking.They don't have many men, but it's not their own city watch that these people rely on, it's the Sacred Band. And they don't stay in the city unless they're recruiting, so the only real military element in the city is the city watch. However..." Venicius taps the three gates in and out of Suerna on the map, "The moment they catch a whiff of danger, they will close their gates and wait out any siege for their patron mercenaries to relieve them. Frontal assault is out of the question."
"Destroy the surrounding farmlands, incite them into opening their gates and attacking our forces," Cabaleiro, the Iberian commander of the Five Hundred, suggests. He is a surprisingly young man for someone who leads the illustrious free company, and quite handsome to boot. The man has an easy, relaxed air about him - you can see him fitting well with almost any army unit. "That's what we did against most city states when we fought for one satrap or the other. They can't afford losing their primary source of food, so they have to respond eventually."
Ambiorix scoffs. "Eventually is too long a time. These Carthaginians, I have fought for them before. Can this ship of yours destroy all the boats in the harbour before they leave the range of your ballista? Me, I do not think so. Some will escape. Only one need to warn other Phoenicians for the word to spread. And when they do, their ships will cover the ocean." The brown-haired Gaul wears his long beard in braids, which make fascinating waves when he speaks.
"So whatever we do, we do it fast." You toddle around the rough map of Suerna. "What we need is a lightning-fast attack with sufficient power to put the defenders on the wrong foot from the start to finish. We need the gates of Suerna to be open to us while the enemy are still waking up."
MULTI-CHOICE VOTE
(1)
"Ambiorix, you're up. I want your men on standby to climb those walls in the twelfth hour of the night and take control over the gates to let the others in."
"The Five Hundred will enter the city under the guise of still looking for a contract in broad daylight."
Custom
(2)
"Once the gates are open, we will need to prevent ships from leaving the harbour to alert other nearby cities of the attack," you say, rubbing your chin in a very unchildlike manner. "Our second objective will be to prevent the ships from leaving by any means possible so they don't warn the other ports."
"Rhea alone will be enough to dissuade any ship from trying to leave the harbour."
Order one of the mercenary companies in assisting Rhea with securing the harbour
Custom
(3)
"We cannot forget the most important objective, which is making sure the defenders of Suerna remain disorganised and scattered. We need at least one of the companies to stay spread out in the city to butcher the inhabitants, many of them hopefully still in their sleep."
The remaining mercenary company is automatically chosen for this job
"I think that concludes the critical battle phase of our plan, gentlemen," you say, knocking your knuckles on the wooden table. "Any questions?"
"Yeah," Ambiorix says, his thickly accented Greek making you feel all nostalgic, until you meet his bewildered eyes. "Who the fuck are you, kid?"
(4)
Write in [Introduce yourself to the new additions to Mission Control, namely Ambiorix and Cabaleiro]
"I am Alexandros, son of Landros. He has delegated authority to me in this matter, and I'll warn you only once not to judge me by my appearance. Hear my words, consider them, and you will recognize the merit of my mind."
"I don't tell your father how to drive his ship," Albiorix says dismissively. "That's his job, and the thing he's experienced in. Little child, battles are ugly things where plans go awry the moment swords meet. It's nothing like your picture books and nursery rhymes that your poets and singers strum their damnable harps about. Why don't you let the adults in the room do their thing and go look for some puppy to play with?"
Venicius steps between you and the Gaulish chieftain. "Now look here, you two-bit barbarian. I don't know how you do things in your neck of the woods, but I brought up Alexandros myself. He knows a whole lot more than you in real fucking warfare, one that involves actual soldiers, not just against some Armenian farmers."
"Whatever his age, the plan is sound," Cabaleiro says, "though somewhat uninspired. I confess that I do not like the part where I and my men are to enter the city and start an insurrection by ourselves." He points a finger at Ambiorix. "What guarantee do I have that these horsemen will follow up properly after we open the gates? The lives of the Five Hundred are precious and not to be spilled for the sake of some barbaroi."
"Just because your people got shagged in the bum by the Romans first doesn't make you more "civilised", Lusitani," Ambiorix says. "You think hanging out with Greeks and oiling your anus after every lay makes you better learned? Pah! I am beginning to think that maybe you wear so much armour, because you fear being spurned by your boy-lover after getting a scar." Jupiter, but these two men are like cats and dogs. Or bear and horse, rather - the Gaulish chieftain is big and hairy enough to be one, and the Lusitanian leader of the Five Hundred has a certain equine look about him, from his large and expressive hazel-coloured eyes to the carefully tousled mane of olive-black hair. You wish they would just kiss and make up.
"You are right, Master Cabaleiro," Timon says hastily before the young warlord rises to his bait. "It is difficult to fully trust a man you have just met, or perhaps even fought against as the case may be - I am not fully aware of the histories of all the mercenary companies operating in Parthia. But that is precisely the reason we chose a relatively undefended target for our first sortie - to ascertain whether you can rely on each other. This battle will be the proving ground to forge the two groups into a single army. You yourself agreed that the plan was feasible, yes?"
Cabaleiro nods, reluctantly prying his smouldering gaze away from the other mercenary captain.
"Then let's follow it. Worse comes to worst, your men will have to deal with some city watchmen - men who are unlikely to match the soldiers of the Five Hundred. A city that size can't have more than, what, eight hundred guards? Maybe less?" You raise a silent prayer of thanks that Timon was here. If it was just Venicius, it might have devolved into a civil war.
"So we ride in after the pretty boys get into the city and open the gates," Ambiorix says. "You want us to just go around butchering people? This vessel of yours really can handle all the ships that will try to contact the other cities?"
You nod. "Rhea is a capable ship - she and her ballistae will handle our end, so focus on your side. Speaking of the ballistae, that will be your signal to begin the attack from within, Cabaleiro. We will begin firing into the moored ships when the city is asleep. Commence the operation when you hear the cracking of lumber." You turn to the Gaul. "Once the gates open, cause as much mayhem as you can. War cries, shouting, setting fire to the city - it does not matter. We want to demoralise the inhabitants to remove the possibility of organised resistance. The looting can begin once dawn arrives and we are certain that the enemy is completely neutralised."
"And by neutralised, you mean...?" Cabaleiro asks. You understand where he is coming from. Some clients like to keep the city's economic output relatively undamaged, while others do not want anything so petty as humanitarian concerns to get in the way of an efficient sacking. Generally speaking, the looser the terms of engagement, the better soldiers performed in an urban environment... though there was of course such a thing as being too lenient with civilian murders. Still, did Carthaginian lives really count as human?
Keep the rampaging to a minimum, I want the population mostly intact.
Don't go out of your way to keep civilians safe, but do not endanger the mission either.
Kill them all - not just the men who could raise arms, but the women and the children too.
Custom
Custom: Kill the men, but take as many women as possible as slaves. In this way, we can achieve the self-replenishing soldier population that made the Germans appealing. Plus, it's somewhat similar to the Rape of the Sabines, and I'm sure that Caesar, as a Roman, would appreciate that.
"Spare the women, but the rest are fair game. I cannot stress the point that our biggest concern is making sure the inhabitants of Suerna cannot mount a counter-offensive. Rip and tear until the deed is done, gentlemen."
The mood around the war council table is sombre, the adults visibly disturbed that a child just said those words.
Venicius is the only one who seems completely unperturbed. "They're fakkin Carthaginians," he states. "Damn them. Damn them all to hell." It's evident that the Roman ex-gladiator approves. As for the others... Ambiorix is looking at you with a different light in his eyes, as if he can't decide whether you're a psychopath or a practical commander, and Cabaleiro's face is a mask, completely unreadable. You aren't too worried about it - mercenaries were used to atrocities.
Roll 3d100, taking best of three
Vote whether you want Little Caesar to be on Rhea, join Ambiorix's Gauls, or Cabaleiros' Five Hundred
Gauls
The gates of Suerna are closed for the night curfew. Torch-bearing guards walk up and down her walls, looking down at the weary travelers huddled together outside it, waiting for the break of day to resume their traffic into the city in their tents once the gate reopens.
"I would like to state, for the record, that I object to this mistreatment," you say with a pout. After you joined the Gauls in waiting outside the city (who had decided to disguise themselves as a nomadic people here to sell some horses) they immediately swabbed you in a large leather baby pouch. You were the token child to make the group look harmless, carried on the side of Ambiorix's horse. To maintain the illusion of being a traveling people (and not a band of warriors) the Gauls managed to fashion a type of mobile tent on their supply wagons, called yurts - apparently it was all the rage among the eastern nomads, who were more of a common sight around these parts than wandering Gauls. The real deal was supposed to be pretty warm and comfortable, nothing like the pitiful ramshackle thing that the Gauls made up with their spare cloaks of fur and leather.
Of course, the Gauls' "yurts" hid warriors, not women and children. Ambiorix's group did not have civilians. That would change once the raid commenced.
"You joined my men for the assault, you follow my rules," Ambiorix says with a chuckle. He's been prodding the mobile crib you are empouched within for the length of the slow journey to Suerna, after the Gauls disembarked from Rhea some miles away from the port city proper. The ship herself was going to enter the port in the dark of the night. Rhea was a big girl - her mere presence had a tendency to cause the city to feel alarmed. "Teutates, but you are small! Are you sure you aren't a full-grown dwarf? No," he says more to himself than you, "dwarves have hideous proportions. You look like a proper child to me."
"I am a real child, you know," you say matter of factly. "Now let me out of this constricting baby carriage. It is a most undignified way of traveling."
Ambiorix shakes his head. "No can do, little one. You're our key to relaxing the guards, and that means have to baby you as much as possible." He withdraws a chunk of hard-baked biscuit and offers it to you. "Cookie?"
Even as you fume externally at this treatment, your mind calculates on ways to get closer with this man. Ambiorix was, as far as you could tell, a very exuberant fellow rather like your father. Nothing like the gloomy Vercingetorix whose presence you had the displeasure of enduring in the march back to Rome, or the numerous client-chieftains of Gaul, flatterers and backstabbers all. Perhaps it is the lack of having to bother with politics, leading such a small group of men, that keeps him so liberated.
Demand that you get freed from the mobile baby pouch
Ask about his opinions on stuff
Pull his beard
Write-in
Custom: Looks like we'll be graciously taking the cookie and making some smalltalk while waiting for Rhea to start shooting, but no beard pulling. Vote closed.
The biscuit is hard and salty, with flakes of what you think is dried fig. "You will need to keep your energy for what is to come," Ambiorix says. "This is what we eat during marches. No warm food for you tonight, little one. I have given orders not to start campfires, since-"
"Weapons can glint from firelight," you finish for him. "I am not a complete amateur in the affairs of war, chieftain," you say drily. "I can subsist perfectly well on marching rations."
"So you say," he shrugs, looking at you strangely. "But I have never known Greeks to send children to battlefield."
"You think I am lying."
"It is known for children to exaggerate," he says. "And city-dwellers sing incessantly about the glory of battle, or how this or that hero triumphed over a flood of enemies."
"What the poets do not sing about is the stench," you say slowly, holding his gaze. "Soldiers with pierced innards screaming as the toxic body waste poisons their body and the ground. Men shitting themselves as they die, just like they did when they were toddlers, after losing their control over their own bowels. The puddle of piss pooling under terrified first-timers, churning over and over by sandalled feet."
The banner bearer falls before your eyes, three goose-feathered sticks protruding from his back. You dismount - just in time, as an errant ballista bolt skewers your horse - and raise the muddied banner once more, rallying what soldiers remain on the rain-slick field. All around is chaos, man and barbarian conjoined in unwholesome union in the bloody rites of battle, but the vexillum cannot be allowed to fall. Somewhere amidst the din of battle you hear the whistles of a centurion announcing the total destruction of his unit.
"Fall back!" A soldier whose name you cannot remember shouts. Only when he slaps your shoulder do you realise he is speaking to you. "Too much will be lost from your death, my general - both here and back home in Rome. Here - take my horse and give me the banner, let me hold it in your stead. You must live even if all others fall. Fall back!"
"Gods help me, but I don't think you are lying." He shakes his head. You can't see his expression in the dark, but you can guess what it looks like. "Perhaps you have more in common with your namesake than I thought, Alexandros."
The chieftain addressed you with your name for the first time. Progress.
"Your accent, when you speak with your men in your own tongue - it is northish. Belgae?" you guess.
He nods. "Our ancestors. Now we wander the lands of foreigners, receiving pay for butchering full-bellied soldiers of the east."
"Ah. So no relations to the Galatians-"
"None," he cuts you off. "They are no longer of Gaul. Building houses and living in cities - pah!" He spits. "They have become soft. No, they cannot be considered to be the same with our people. You know our tongue?"
You shake your head. "Only a little, my teacher was Gaulish." And you picked up a few words and phrases in your time in Gaul. "Why so far east, Ambiorix of the Belgae? There are patrons closer to home, like Dacians, Rome..."
"It is because of Rome that we left," he says grimly. "Nothing was the same after that monster, that reaper of death came to the lands of my fathers and destroyed everything. He razed villages, replaced long-honoured kings with his own puppets, and spread corruption into the minds of elders. May damnation come to that Roman whoreson, whose name can only be uttered in the same place as excrements!"
You wisely decide to avoid the subject. "Well," you begin, but the crackling of lumber resounds from the harbour. Rhea was no doubt beginning to sink ships with its ballistae. That was the signal to start the attack for the Five Hundred, which meant the Gauls needed to mobilise in short order.
"We should get ready," Ambiorix says, mercifully distracted from his outburst. "I will post two men and their horses to be with you. If things do not go according to plan, ride back with them."
That is probably for the best. You were no longer needed here once the pretense of being innocent nomads was dropped. What could a five year old do among adults? Stab their ankles? Kick their shins?
...On the other hand, you finally managed to get Ambiorix to recognise you as something more than just a petulant child. In your time in Gaul, you've found that they put great stock in the martial abilities of a leader. Could you do it? Was your one year of training with Venicius enough to fell grown men?
That is probably for the best. You were no longer needed here once the pretense of being innocent nomads was dropped. What could a five year old do among adults? Stab their ankles? Kick their shins?
The Gaulish chieftain's concern was found to be baseless. Cabaleiro's men did their job admirably, overtaking the gate watchmen and opening the way into the city in less than twenty minutes, as expected from their great discipline. Once the gates opened and made the city's high walls useless, the Gauls mounted their horses and did what they do best: pillage.
Caesar watched quietly with the son and daughter of Ambiorix flanking his side as Suerna fell to the blood-fuelled mania of the Belgae. The sound of death echoed throughout the once mighty city of stone, the misery of people who lost their homes and family and friends taking form in shrieks and cries. The Five Hundred and their Gaulish allies grimly committed to their bloody job to the very end without meeting much resistance from the confused populace of the city. It was far too long since he saw the glory of Mars in action, and some niggling part of him remonstrated him for not leading his soldiers himself in the front. Of course, such an action would be suicidal for a five-year-old, even one so matured (physically as well as mentally) as the shell for divine Caesar; yet Caesar understood the Virtue of Severitas, or self control. There were more battlefields to led, even greater amount of blood to be spilled.
Not everything went according to Caesar's plan. The day after the sacking, Caesar learned that a fishing boat managed to escape. Despite the best efforts of the crewmen of Rhea, taking twenty six vessels into the depth of the harbour by itself, a messenger bearing the news of Suerna's fall had been let loose. The commanders of the expedition took comfort in knowing that it would take at least a week for the small ship to arrive in a nearby allied city-state and return with reinforcements - more than ample enough time for Rhea to finish loading its new cargo and head back to Numante. Caesar did not think much of the small number of refugees aboard such a craft at that time.
"A drink!" Ambiorix shouts, lifting his drinking horn high. "A drink to Landros, captain of the inestimable warship Rhea!"
Landros laughs heartily as he joins (with a wine cup, not a drinking horn) with his own cry. "To the valiant Gauls and the disciplined Five Hundred! Long may we reap wealth from the savage Phoenicians and people of their ilk!" The Greeks are long-time rivals of the similarly nautical Phoenicians, and do not weep in seeing their destruction.
There is a festive mood aboard your father's ship, not the least due to the fresh food newly acquired from Suerna In three days you would have to go back to eating sea biscuits and watered wine, but while the supplies remained they celebrated. Ambiorix, seated on the high table together with the leaders of the expedition, had two of the female slaves from Suerna around him, their faces still shadowed with loss, taking his time pinching and grabbing their more feminine parts throughout the party. Calabeiro opposite him has a different choice in companionship, having three boys fair of features draped around him like so much luxurious silk. The hellenised Lusitani catches you looking at him and his living ornaments and winks, at which you shudder and return to your cup. You can't wait to grow up and leave boyhood behind.
Of course you were seated with the rest of the commanders and captain. You masterminded the attack and even saw it through to completion. Landros is his usual animated self, constantly ruffling your hair and praising your great intellect, while comparing his own to that of a snail. Your father cannot read or write, which is where Lynius and Micah assist him in his duties as captain.
"It's from my wife, Rhea. I'm sure of it." Landros downs another cup. The drinking has made him more sentimental and teary. "She was the village elder's daughter, you know. Learned to read and write at an early age, unlike me. I don't deserve her, I really don't. Listen here, Alexandros my boy, you aughta find a nice girl and when you do, treat her like a delicate flower that she is, you hear me? Treat her... well..." The ground thumps as your giant of a father slips into alcohol-induced sleep, much to the relief of your scalp. If he had kept ruffling your head so violently you might have gone bald. Again.
Now that you are liberated from your father, you can spend what time remains before your bedtime with other matters.
You could talk with Ambiorix, continue that discussion from before, though hopefully not the part where he goes on a rant about the Romans.
Cabaleiro is not very forthcoming about himself, which isn't unusual. Mercenaries are not exactly known to buddy up with their employers, part time as the relationship often is. You're not sure if it is safe to go to him alone without an adult, given your current physical predicament.
Join Micah, Timon, and Lynius in accounting for the new loot brought in. The wealth of Suerna was great, and with it you could start planning on purchasing even more things for the journey ahead.
So ends chapter 1.