War of the Weeping Aurochs [SC Only]

by **The Natufian Nation** » Sat Mar 06, 2021 7:33 am

• This role-play is for members of The Fifth Sovereign Charter only. If you are not a member….why aren’t you?!?! Come on by and plop down for a spell. Pick a side and join the fun. Joining the region Discord will be essential to play.
• The RP is set in the present, according to Sovereign Charter standard time. This is a canonical RP.
• This is intended as a proxy war RP. There are 5 major factions aligned with various Natufian groups. Other nations are encouraged to play as either mercenary armies hired by a faction, or national armies sent to support an ally. PM me if you have other ideas for participation.
• As a proxy war, the RP is intended to be contained inside the borders of the Natufian Nation with players, at least nominally, supporting a particular Natufian faction. However, players are free to eschew the Natufians and fight against each other directly, which should be considered an escalation. Players may also mutually agree to escalate the war to outside the borders of the Natufian Nation, but please check with Slav on his willingness to support the roll mechanics. This level of escalation is not advised by the GM and is beyond the intended scope of the RP…but…the Sovereign Charter being what it is…shrugs.
• There will be no use of WMDs in the borders of the Natufian Nation! What you do to each other outside my borders is your concern.
• The war mechanics and dice rolls will be managed by Greater Slavacia, as deputy-GM. What he says as concerns force limits, mechanics, troop movements and battle outcomes is authoritative, unless it is overruled by GM prerogative for the sake of the story. The idea is Slav manages the actual fighting, the GM guides the overall story arc and qualitative aspects.
• For questions on allowable military technology, PM Slav…he also happens to be the RP Censor.
• The GM reserves the right of final say and authority on everything pertaining to the RP and as concerns the events inside the Natufian Nation. The spirit of the RP is to build a story as much as to play a war game.
• Have fun, be creative, and let the RP say something about your nations. PM with any questions, concerns or anything you think may help the RP.
• Your actions in the RP will have a direct influence on post-RP relations with the Natufian Nation and probably other nations. Choose your actions carefully.

PROLOGUE

High Chief Nathaniel al-Shuqba has died, suffering a massive stroke in the wake of the Rusinan Collapse. Following Natufian custom, his body laid in state at the government house in Uki Square in New Jericho for four days. Each day his body positioned along a different wall aligning with the four cardinal directions. On the fifth day, a public ceremony was held to invite the Great Auroch to claim his soul and guide it to the realm of the ancestors. Prince Octavius Nero himself arrived to attend the state funeral ceremony and to console the mourning nation from his position as delegate of the Protector Natufiae, Gemellus Caesar. After the ceremony, the High Chief's body was sent to his family ranch to be interred privately by his family under the ranch house and a ceremonial stone placed on his chest.

On the sixth day post-mortem, the Conclave of Chiefs convened to elect a new High Chief from among their ranks. For four days, the chiefs, isolated in the government house, debated and dealed in private discussion, voted, talked some more, voted again, talked even more, voted yet again, and again. Tensions rose steadily over those four days. The favorite candidate was Benjamin al-Shuqba, the nephew of the late High Chief. Benjamin enjoyed wide support, but there were other chiefs adamantly opposed. Some because they perceived he would be too close to Rome, some because they thought he would not be close enough. Others raised concerns over nepotism and dynasty, yet others simply because their tribes had old grudges against the al-Shuqba clan.

On the tenth day, without a new High Chief being decided and accepted, the Conclave broke down with rival chiefs leaving for their homelands, anxious to protect them in the uncertain times looming and eager to draw closer to foreign powers to defend their interests. At the same time, new ideas were spreading, challenging the Chiefdom system of government and the client-state relationship with Rome. Heartfilian capitalism and Slavacian socialism being the main revolutionary trains of thought, with Skjoldurian authoritarianism growing in other regions. In the east, an independence movement was growing in Harif.

These were lamentable and dangerous times for the Natufian Nation. It was uncertain if it would emerge from the crisis as still one, united nation ….or be broken all to pieces…..

Banner of the Emir of Harif

.

For the backstory of the Emirate of Harif, see here: https://www.nationstates.net/page=dispatch/id=1268184

There is a beauty in the silence and sterility of the great Negev desert. Only the wind blowing scraping sand and the cry of the rock hawks hunting the small rodents that hid among the rocky outcrops can be heard. Further out in the open sand, not even the hawks can be heard. But the great city of Masraq was nestled in among the barren rocks and buttes of the western Negev. Surrounded by expanses of nothing, it was an oasis city and its vibrancy felt like the whole world to the inhabitants within. But these days, it only felt like half of a world.

Just outside the eastern edge of the city, there was about a mile or so of horse tracks in the rocky soil, ending with a skinny equine, head down picking at any succulents it could find in the miserly ground. It found little nourishment. Standing 20 or so paces from the horse, a young man, about 16 years of age, stood in the wind, the afternoon sun slowly giving up its scorching heat to the frigid night that would follow. The young man, for to look at him one would not mistake him for a boy, was dressed in brown, baggy trousers, a green button-down shirt that resembled a uniform, but all this was covered by a long flowing desert cloak flapping about in the wind. The burnt-orange colored keffiyeh wrapped around his head and face hid his handsome features, almond-colored eyes that matched his skin, an aquiline nose and thin lips. The stubbly beginnings of a dark beard gave a rough texture to his jawline. A Natufian Ibex 7.62mm assault rifle was strapped around his shoulder in a rest position.

Nadir, for that was the man-boy soldier’s name, liked to come out here alone. He looked down and marveled. At his feet and extending into the far, far eastern horizon and beyond were the quiet and disused tracks of a once important railroad. He tried to imagine the trains that used to come and go bringing fine goods and interesting people from other lands into Masraq. But that was no more, and Nadir strained his eyes to see as far as he could down the line. He did not know where it ended but he heard its terminus was at a great harbor on the edge of a water that went on beyond the eye could see. Not only that, he had heard, but had trouble believing, that across those boundless waters were even more lands with more peoples. For a desert Natufian of Harif who had never seen water that wasn’t drawn from the ground, it was an impossible vision.

But some day, Nadir thought to himself, someday when he was ready, he would follow these iron lines in the sand across the great Negev to…only the spirits knew where. But for now, his community needed him. The Emir of Harif had returned to Masraq after some important meeting regarding the so-called High Chief, a personage of not quite so great import here. The Emir, it was said, was dismayed. Harif was Natufian, of that there was no doubt. Their cousins on the plains shared common lineage back in the times before the great migration and separation. That was many, many generations ago. When Harif was more recently annexed into the full Natufian Nation, there was concern about the designs of the Romans. Indeed, they were not liked very much at all here. But the Harifians took comfort knowing that their old ally and rival of Rome, Valyrien, was present and would counterbalance the Roman influence. But Valyrien was no more, and with no new High Chief selected, there was fear the Romans would act to exert direct control in Harif. Or if not them, suspicions abound that the Slavacians, who wanted to re-order the world in their socialist fantasy, would arrive to gain a foothold in the Strei-ar heartland, displacing the Emir.

Whether or not either or both were true, the Emir had been frantically reaching out to potential allies. Harif needed new allies, that was certain. Nadir heard there was a new nation at the end of these very tracks, but he knew not how friendly or strong they were. The elders of his clan spoke well of Arcyrskia, far to the north, where old trade routes through the desert still led. There were also the Jiqazi, whose traders starting arriving a few years ago from a colony of theirs to the southeast. Perhaps they could be the allies needed. One night, at a desert campfire with his cousins, his cousin Radha spoke of a land across the waters where there were people who weren’t quite human. She spoke of them as being tall with pointed ears, wearing robes of a luminous material. They were supposed to be wise and disciplined, friendly but with unique martial skills. Nadir was sure this was just a hallucination of Radha brought on by the cactus fungus she would ferment and eat. She wanted to be a shaman upon her maturity. Still, if there was any truth to it, strong allies these people could be.

But that was up to the Emir to decide. His job now was to prepare, to resist those that would dare come into the harsh and unforgiving Negev to challenge the great Emirate of Harif. Nadir drew a deep breath, laid his hand upon the quiet rails for a moment, then walked back and mounted his horse.

by **Romae in Perpetuum** » Tue Mar 16, 2021 5:55 pm

Ap. Cincius Titianus: The Pensive Proconsul
New Jericho, Jericho State, Commonwealth of Natufia
Non. Martius, 2130 AUNC

Cincius Titianus tilted his head marginally to the side. “While his Imperial Highness, I’m sure, would enjoy nothing more than to co-ordinate the defence of the Natufian people; it is more plausible that such an honour would fall to the Dux Legionum of Pannonia. Given the…” he coughed. “unexpected collapse of the Conclave, his forces will undoubtedly be the first responders.”
The High Chief nodded. "Very understandable, Proconsul. And I would not want our friend and benefactor in harm's way on Natufian soil. I will ask our Militia Command to coordinate with the Pannonian commander. I would also like to personally meet with him as soon as can be arranged, to make sure we understand what our rules of engagement will be against the seditious tribes.”
Titianus just managed to bite his lip in time. Rules of Engagement? Roman warfare typically revolved around shock and awe, taking the foe down with one decisive blow. If it were indeed the Dux of Pannonia who took direct command of Roman forces in Natufia, to say he would be resentful of any attempts of civilian limitation would be an understatement.
Thinking fast, he carefully held his palms out to his sides. “We pray to the Divine Augustus that the few errant tribal leaders see sense and accept the High Chief's benignant offer of clemency for their heinous crimes.” Titianus declared piously.
The younger man’s brow creased slightly but he reciprocated the gesture. "As do we and I have been making offerings at the altars and seeking guidance from the oracles."
He was seeming unwilling, however, to move the conversation away from martial affairs and fixed the Proconsul with a consternated look.
“There is something else that concerns me and could use your sage advice. I am not sure we are safe here in the capital.” Benjamin glanced side to side quickly, as if declaring this out loud made it more so. “Most of my support are in the northern lands. Here, New Jericho is surrounded by Chief Masum's allies. I told you how he spoke strongly against me in the Conclave. Should he move against me, I am not sure how defensible we are. I am considering temporarily moving the capital...to Kerak.”

Titianus paused a moment to reorder his thoughts. It was a valid fear. The ruthless Chief Masum had a lot of support in the hinterlands of the state and if their militias were raised, Titanius could not be certain for whom they would declare. At the same time, an ignominious flight from the Capital would reek of weakness not just in Natufia, but on the world stage as well. This would have to be managed carefully.
"A practical concern High Chief, one that I too have pondered. Misak Azizian is a firm ally who, I am sure, will happy host us however..." His voice took on a minor but noticeably insistent tone. “We must consider the political impact of such a move. By the right of majority, you are High Chief, this is a fact. But there are those who will refuse to see it and your detractors have already begun to spread misinformation about your relationship with the Imperium...to abandon the capital at such a time would cast undue aspersions upon the new government, to say the least."
Benjamin seemed to consider this and rested his chin on a pair of nut-brown hands until he reached a decision.
"Yes, I see. You are right, Titianus, to move now would just embolden those who are resisting. They will see it as a sign of weakness, even paranoia, perhaps. I cannot abandon New Jericho when we are still at peace. I do want to make it a contingency plan, however. Chief Misak is certainly loyal. I think I told you, he was a contender himself in the first day of the Conclave. But when it was apparent that he didn't have the support he needed, he withdrew his name and very emphatically backed me instead."
The Proconsul allowed himself a small smile. Misak Azizian had been a rather serious contender to be Nero’s designated replacement for the late chief; a Romaphile through and through who would have zealously pushed forward whatever Nova Roma required. Titianus, however, had gently argued for Benjamin; believing that a moderate would be palatable enough to ensure an orderly succession. He had only been half right so far…

"He recognised your potential, High Chief. As do I, and as does His Imperial Highness.” Azizian’s support had been bought with a rather generous bribe, as well as the promise of a greater role in the new government, that would come in time- when Benjamin’s regime was undisputed. “But as to the security of New Jericho, I believe I have a solution.” He raised a solitary eyebrow. “If I may?”
"Of course, what is your advice?"
"You are correct in saying that Masum has far more support in this region than is proper, but his methods are...rather extreme.” Titianus coughed in meaning. “From what I have witnessed in my years here, much of his support comes from coercion and more than a few of his allies see him more as a bully than a friend. If we can meet with a few of the local chiefs and convince them that the Shuqba- and by extension Rome- are willing and able to protect them from retaliation, they may be willing to come over to us."
The High Chief said nothing at first, finally pouring himself a drink into a crystalline cocktail glass that had been sat patiently on the table- two fingers of mezcal by Titianus’ reckoning- repugnant stuff. Benjamin gingerly lifted the ornate tumbler but refrained from taking his first sip. Instead, wearing a contemplative look, he rose from the table and started slowly pacing the room. Titianus did nothing, vividly recalling the High Chief’s predecessor having the same habit when pondering a diplomatic response.
"I don't want to turn New Jericho into a fortress-city, though.” Benjamin asserted. “But yes, if we can get some of Masum's chiefs to defect, we can better counter any moves in the area. It'll be a hard sell to get them to act against Masum. But with the promise of Roman aid and protection, they may just consider us.”
Benjamin wandered over to a finely crafted mosaic that occupied the office’s far wall. It depicted, in exquisite detail, the entirety of the Natufian Commonwealth. The various lakes, rivers and waterways that made Natufia the breadbasket of the Imperium were depicted in finest lapis lazuli. The heartland was made from layers and layers of verdant green tiles that contrasted marvellously with the harsh sandstone colours of the Eastern Desert. Each city and town had a unique emblem, their names carved below in Latinate gold filigree. It was a stunning piece that had been gifted to Nathaniel al-Shuqba by Gemellus Caesar not three months ago.
“The hold-out chiefs of the Doha region are also ripe for convincing.” The High Chief said, gesturing to the mosaic. “It is common knowledge that many of them feel displaced by the new businesses gaining influence from trade with Heartfilia. I was even able to briefly talk with Chief Tabuk just before he left for Oshala. He's been financially strapped, the way he mismanages the area, so we may be able to buy influence with the Baidha.”
He paused to finally sip his drink and Titianus could see his gaze wander to the east. “As for the Emir, I think I can maintain a peace for now. But if he does formally declare independence, we will have no choice but to act. Of course, our most pressing concern is the capital."

For the first time in a long while Titianus smiled sincerely, an odd sight on a Roman, if Benjamin al-Shuqba continued to show these kinds of insights into the Natufian people then he would indeed prove himself a worthy leader; as well as solidify Titianus’ judgement in the eyes of Octavius Nero.
“I can hear your dear Uncle in your voice, High Chief. It warms my heart.” Titianus declared. “I agree, Roman troops must not be seen to have occupied the capital, lest this look like an annexation. His Imperial Highness as assured me that the Imperial Treasury is ready and willing to provide whatever help it can in... convincing wavering chiefs, both for and against us, to acknowledge the election. As for the Emir..." The Roman felt his good cheer fade as his mind dwelled on the traitorous Harifi. "I have never been fond of the Harifians and the Emir certainly has few friends in Nova Roma. I am, however, a firm believer in practicality. Without their Valarisk puppet masters Harif is isolated and impoverished, in short: The Emir needs a new friend. It is in all our interests for Rome to become that friend and I am confident in my ability to put that before the Senate, if need be."
If Benjamin was at all surprised at the Roman Proconsul advocating increased relations with former Valarisk allies he didn’t let it show, merely offered a tired shrug and a sigh. “The willingness from our side is not in question. It's our prideful desert cousins. Annexing Harif was a quite bold move by my uncle but at the time, the Emir seemed very willing. Of course, his game has always been to play all sides. But I agree, if we can convince the Emir and his sheikhs to remain in the Commonwealth, that is for the best. There is bad blood between Harif and the Baidha, that can work in our favour, too, if the Emir feels threatened or that we hold the reigns there. What do you think can be done in the Senate, exactly?"
Titianus leaned forward conspiratorially. "The proposition of an Economic Stimulus Initiative within the Emirate, for the construction of modern infrastructure and amenities. If it can pass the Senate, which it will if his Imperial Highness Octavius Nero indicates his support, the Imperium will authorise millions of Denarii of investment in Masraq alone! Better yet, if we can also present it as a trial for a Commonwealth wide investment program, I can only see our grassroots support increase."

For the first time since the Conclave broke, Benjamin smiled. “I like it! I really do!” He took a healthy swig of Mezcal. “The Imperium and his Imperial Highness Prince Nero once again are showing generosity and support for us that is not nearly appreciated enough. I just do not understand why so many tribes still do not see the importance of our relationship. But to the point, I know the Emir will immediately be looking for what strings are attached. He is Harifian so he does not always follow reason, but the passions of his heart and how it affects his image. But the more we keep him talking, the less we have to worry about him outright rebelling. I know it would be easier just to let Harif go.... but that was not the vision of my uncle, nor is it mine.”

“A noble vision of unification and brotherhood.” Mused Titianus with a lament. “What is the Pax Romana but that?” The older man stood. “If you will excuse me High Chief, I have a series of appointments to keep. Before I go, though.” Reaching into the folds of his toga, Titianus presented the other man with an officious-looking scroll that was sealed with a clear depiction of a Sphinx entwined with an Eagle: the personal seal of Octavius Nero. "You have been formally invited to attend His Imperial Highness at his new residence. From what he graciously revealed to me, he intends to remain close by until the situation is resolved to your mutual satisfaction; such is the place the Natufian People hold in his affections."
Eyes-wide, Benjamin set down his glass and carefully took the scroll into his hands, cradling it like an infant and regarding it with some awe. "Truly, I am honoured! Of course I will accept, although I confess some anxiety leaving the city with things in the state they are. But my cabinet is in-tact and functioning, I have you and the Council of Elders here and the Natufian Guard are on stand-by, so I am confident all will be well. I will offer the carrot to the holdouts, but we must also consider when and how to use the stick. Please remember, I want to meet with my Councillor for Defence and the Dux Legionum when he arrives. I will not keep you any longer, Proconsul, thank you for your time."

With a slight bow of the head Titianus turned his back and walked away, determined to reach Nova Roma immediately and find out which brand of brute had been dispatched to lead Rome’s forces in Natufia and keep him as far away from the new High Chief as possible.

F. Minicius Aemilianus: The Bear General
Nahal Orsen, Nahal Province, Commonwealth of Natufia
a.d. VI Eid. 2130 AUNC

“Roma, Roma, O Roma!”
A truly marvellous sound considered Minicius Aemilianus. The Anthem of the Legions! The sound of men for whom defeat was a foreign concept and victory all but inevitable. From the solace of his staff car Aemilianus made a silent vow to Mars Gradivus that he’d bring his men the triumph they craved; one way or another.
“Legio! Aererna! Aeterna! Victrix! Legio! Aeterna! Aeterna! Victrix!”
Not that was going to happen any time soon, Aemilianus groused to himself. The Proconsul of Natufia had specifically requested a garrison force from his Pannonian counterpart to secure the northern territories against the threat of attack, a request that explicitly stated that such forces not be equipped with heavy weaponry or accompanied by armour.

“Bloody politicking.” He grumbled aloud.
“Dux?" queried Valerius Paulus, Aemilianus’ newly appointed chief aid, who sat adjacent to the General and had been quietly reviewing the latest briefs on the situation in New Jericho.
“A single vexillatio!” Answered Aemilianus, despite his better judgement. “A limitaneus vexillatio auxilliariorum at that.” He pursed his lips. “How I’m expected to secure the province effectively without even a single proper Legion is beyond me.”
Paulus kept quiet, only inclining his head to his superior’s comment.
Aemilianus frowned. He enjoyed it when his direct subordinates queried him occasionally; blind obedience stifled creativity and invited mistakes- a fact that many of his peers seemed inclined to ignore. Thinking on it, the General struggled to recall which one of these Paulus had served under previously. The man could be no older than 40, he couldn’t have been a Chief Staffer for long.
“Where was it you were stationed before Pannonia, Praefectus?”
“I spent the last few months awaiting reassignment in Nova Roma, Dux.” Aemilianus noticed the younger man’s shoulders tense up. “Before that I was stationed on Harren Island.”
The General raised an eyebrow admiringly. “You were with the twelfth?”
“No, sir. I was in the navy, Classis VII, personal aide to the commander.”
Aemilianus turned his whole-body round in surprise. “Not that old bastard Agrippa?”
“Praefectus Classis Vipsanius Agrippa…yes sir.”
“And you came out alive!? I heard that sadistic old fuck flogged a Trierachus once for having his ship out of formation.” Paulus went quiet again, though Aemilianus noticed his aide’s expression harden. “Well, there won’t be any of that under my command, Prefectus. Flogging is for the rank and file, not officers.”
“A great comfort, Dux.”

The car continued in relative silence, aside from the chants of the Auxilia and the cheers of the gathered crowd. Looking out the window, Aemilianus could see that quite a crowd had gathered to watch the Romans parade through the city. Many were waving Roman or Natufian flags, parents were eagerly lifting their children onto their shoulders and the Dux even saw a few pressing small gifts into the hands of soldiers as they marched through the city.
Privately, Aemilianus was more than a little impressed by what he had seen so far. Nahal Orsen could easily have been any city in the Imperium, both its architecture and grid layout were as familiar to him as Carinatum or even Aquileia, though with a unique rustic twist that the General couldn’t quite place but nonetheless found oddly appealing. As the parade drew closer to the centre, though, the imposing marblesque edifices and colonnades began to give way to longer, lower wooden structures that Aemilianus found totally foreign.
“Not far now, sir.” Said Paulus. “We should be at ‘The Lodge’ in a few minutes.”
Aemilianus grunted in reply. He hadn’t had much time as he would have liked to familiarise himself with local politics. From what little Paulus had been able to prepare him, the Commonwealth was divided among numerous tribal units all of whom owed at least nominal fealty to a ‘High Chief’ in the capital, who in turn paid homage to Caesar. A rather confusing way to run a province, Aemilianus reflected, but then again, he’d never paid much attention to politics.
“Who is it I’m meeting again?”
Paulus tapped his tablet. “The local chief, Dux. My request for a summary on him is still being processed by the Secretariat, but from what I could pull his tribe- that’s the Oren, sir- have been firm friends of the Imperium for generations and this particular Chief has been in power for twenty odd years.”
“An impressive tenure. I look forward to gauging the measure of the man.”

He did not have to wait long, after a few more minutes the procession reached the building known as ‘The Lodge’. It was one of the more traditional looking buildings, large, long and wooden; but even from here Aemilianus could see that it was unusually well adorned for such a structure.
Each piece of timber was sumptuously decorated with a series of elaborate wood carvings, each depicting a series of scenes, possibly from the local history. The general couldn’t be sure. Regardless this was clearly what passed for a government building around here.
Grateful for the chance to stretch his legs, Aemilianus eagerly climbed out of the open car door. He was a large fellow, broad shouldered with a well-muscled physique that belayed his 59 years. Though he was certainly starting to feel them, particularly after being couped up in the car for the last hour, and the general did his best to ignore his stiff limbs as he stretched out to his full six feet.
His men began to cheer as they saw their general emerge.
“Ursus Dux!” They shouted. “Ursus Dux!”
Aemilianus even noticed that some of the crowd had started to take up the chant and grinned broadly.
Ursus Dux, the Bear General. It was true that Aemilianus was certainly much hairier than the average Roman, his limbs were forested with an abundance of thick dark-grey hair that even ran down his hands onto his knuckles- hinting to his roots in the far north-west of the Imperium. Even as a young man he had blatantly sported a full beard, in blatant disregard of the fashion of the day, purely because he found having to sit down for a barber-slave twice a day tedious. It was a nickname he proudly embraced, adding a great cloak of bearskin to his ensemble that he was sporting today.
Aemilianus raised his right arm in acknowledgment of the crowds and soldiery both. They may just be Auxiliary Limitanei, but they were still his men and he loved them as a father loved his sons.
Turning around, he could see two figures waiting by the entrance- the welcoming committee he supposed. The taller of the two couldn’t be more than forty and was uniformed in Natufian colours, though his skin was a little lighter than the general would have expected for a Natufian still Aemilianus judged him too young to be the chief he was expecting. His companion, however, was a slight Natufian woman that seemed around the same age as Aemilianus, perhaps the Chief’s wife? The man himself must still be inside and the General felt a twinge on annoyance that he hadn’t seen fit to greet him.

Shooing away a couple of personal slaves who had begun to make subtle adjustments to his uniform, Aemilianus made his way towards the two, with Paulus, a few Legionary guards, and a train of slave-attendants in tow.
“Hail Caesar!” He called in greeting, trudging up the wooden steps. “I am Minicius Aemilianus and this.” He gestured to his aide. “Is my adjunct, Valerius Paulus.”
Both Natufians inclined their heads but it was the woman who spoke first.
“Hail great Caesar and welcome to Nahal Oren, Dux! Your presence here has given us reassurance in these uncertain times that all will be well.”
“You honour me, madam.” Replied Aemilianus, returning the gesture. Taking one last look around he frowned slightly. “I was told I would be meeting the Oren chief. Are you to escort me to him?
Surprisingly, the woman smiled and let out a small laugh. Aemilianus would normally put such behaviour down to nerves, but if anything, her aura of serenity put his slightly on edge. “I´m afraid, dear Dux, you are looking at the Chiefess of the Natufian people of Nahal Oren. I am Kostana Oren, and you may think of me as a mother to my people that you may give some deference to, as you would the mother of your charges.” She smiled again. “But, to ease your discomfort, I have also invited the Commander of the local militia. May I introduce you to Commander Durril Antonius Faustinius."
The chiefess took great care to emphasise the Roman aspects of his name but ‘Durril’ was unquestionably Natufian. A former member of the Natufian Auxillia who had taken a Roman name with his citizenship? Possible
. At the mention of his name the Commander stepped forward and bowed deeply.
“Hail Caesar! It is an honour to meet you, sir. The great Dux Ursus is known throughout the province."
Curiouser and curiouser, the accent sounded Roman- a little provincial maybe- but not foreign. “And you Antonius Faustinius.” He said with a smile. “But first, I owe your Chieftain an apology.”
Aemilianus abruptly turned on his heels, facing the assembled soldiery. He had only brought a mere company to parade through the city, the rest of his men were making their preparations to continue. Still, it would do.
“Company!” He bellowed. “Full salute! On my mark!” He held for a moment. “Mark!”
With a synchronicity that only the intense drilling of the Imperial Army could achieve, the whole company holstered their weapons to the left and slammed their fists into their shoulders that resonated with a dull thunk multiplied by a hundred.
“Hail!” They chorused in perfect unison, a feat that clearly impressed the crowd judging from the round of applause.

"Thank you, Dux, sincerely. But not necessary.” said the Chiefess. “I know it is not customary for Romans to see women in positions such as mine. For 25 years I have been Chiefess of the Oren tribe, and have seen our peoples surprised many times as we learn each other’s ways. As you can see from our fair city, we have learned much from our Roman friends, but some of our traditions do continue."
She motioned towards the Lodge doors, held open by two Natufian Guardsmen in what looked like full ceremonial dress. Nodding in agreement Aemilianus offered his arm to Kostana who took it graciously and the two headed for entrance.
“I am blessed with a wife and four daughters.” Chucked Aemilianus. “I know what women are capable of if they put their minds to it, Chiefess.”
When they approached the threshold, however, Aemilianus suddenly remembered the rather large escort that was now trailing them and motioned with his free hand for them to remain outside, Paulus of course remained by his side.
As the foursome made their way through the great tribal hall, the General took a moment to appraise the Chiefess of the Oren. Where a younger man might have just seen shadows of the beauty she once was- if that-, Aemilianus could appreciate the joy in her face and lively spirit behind her eyes. Idly, he wondered if she was married or, even if she was, if the Natufians had an overly negative opinion on adultery. As if she could sense his line of thinking, Kostana looked up at him with a quizzical expression that quickly became a smile as he winked.

“So, Faustinius.” The General said, calling over his shoulder to the younger man. “Yours is hardly a Natufian name, Commander. Did you come up through the Natufian Auxilia?”
The Commander appeared a little taken aback, though if this were because he was unused to being referred to by his Roman Cognomen or just the fact that he’d never been addressed directly by such a high-ranking officer was unclear. Nevertheless, he seemed eager enough to answer. “Oh, no sir, I wanted to, my mother became ill right after I completed my mandatory militia training, so I joined the Natufian Guard and stayed to care for her until she passed.” Durril finally stopped to take a breath. “I have my father's name, sir. He was a Roman merchant until he retired. Came to Nahal Oren in his youth and married my mother. He sold heavy machinery, like industrial looms and furnaces, to the factories going up right after the treaty. He was a strong man; he also opened a gym to teach Roman-style wrestling and boxing. I learned a lot from him, helped me excel in my hand-to-hand combat training in the Guard. My apologies, I am talking too much..."
Aemilianus waved a hand jovially, enthusiasm was never a bad thing in his books. “Not at all, Commander. I'm somewhat proficient with a Gladius myself. We should spar before I depart. It's not often I get to practice these days."
The delight on Durril’s face was palpable but he managed to keep it under control. “I would enjoy that, sir, it would be an honour and I am sure you can teach me some techniques my dear father never knew!" It depends how dirty he fought thought Aemilianus. The Bear General had fought alongside many honourable soldiers and he’d fought alongside many old soldiers, but never an old honourable soldier. He was beginning to suspect that what he had heard about the naivety of the Natufians may indeed be true, it would be up to the likes of him and his men to make sure that didn’t get them all killed.

The party soon reached a raised dais at the end of the hall, where Aemilianus assumed a throne, or some other instrument of power would sit. He was rather taken aback then when he was instead led to at an ornate, mahogany table carved delicately with what Aemilianus could only surmise were scenes from local tribal history along the rim. His eyes were immediately drawn to latest engraving, a city with a banner bearing "SPQR" rising from the centre with two aurochs flanking it. At the Chiefess direction they all sat.
“So.” Asked Kostana. “how long will we have you with us, Dux, if I may ask? You are welcome, of course, as long as we can keep you. The tribal council has been pestering me to arrange meetings with you. You may want to leave before I can no longer hold them off!" She laughed with good spirit and the Bear General found himself chortling along with her.
“I may be Patrician in name, but I assure you I cannot stand politics in the slightest, Chiefess.” He affirmed with an exaggerated grimace. To answer your question, I plan to move on as soon as possible. Would you happen to have a map?"
Kostana shot a casual glance to Durril who stiffened slightly.
“I do, sir, here.” He produced a standard paper map of the Commonwealth, the corner of which was occupied by a blow-up of Nahal Province. “You can see here the main roads, railways, our airbases, and I penciled were we currently have our militia units stationed.” Durril frowned in concentration. “The quickest travel is by rail, but the line runs through Doha. I am not sure that is a safe city. So, it may be worth traveling along the roadways.”
if only I could occupy Doha. Aemilianus mentally muttered.
“A warrior’s instinct, Commander, and a valid concern. However.” His cheek twitched unconsciously. “Those were not my orders. In his 'wisdom' your Proconsul has only requested that I fortify the northern provinces, where support for the High Chief is strongest. As such, I plan to take the Belgican 39th and the Lusitanian 21st by rail directly to Ein Gev and set up my headquarters. From there I can send the 21st by road to Alberdiac. Securing Alber and Nahal both."
“And Kerak province?” The Natufian queried. “I know Chief Misak has a formidable militia, but will you be reinforcing there?"
Aemilianus flashed the other man a lupine grin. “I've sent the 59th Aquitanian direct from Pannonia. Legatus Vexillatis Bradua will be in Kerak in an hour or so. From there i've given him express orders to make with all possible speed to Dikikoyun. Care to hazard a guess why, Commander?" He raised an eyebrow expectantly.
Durril studied the map for a few seconds, brow furrowed in concentration. “I would say, first and foremost to protect the eastern flank of the capital in case the Emir of Harif makes a pre-emptive strike in a bid for independence. I don´t think Chief Tabuk in Oshala would do anything rash, though."
“Assume everyone is planning to betray you, Commander. It means you'll never be surprised. With Ein Gev and Dikikoyun secured, the North is all but impenetrable and we shall have a formidable position to bring the southern tribes to heel!” He clapped his giant hands together in satisfaction. “Should it come to it…Of course."

Commander Durril sat back in his chair. His pursed lips and worried eyes betraying some internal conflict. “The militia was meant to defend the tribal lands and the Commonwealth. I never thought we'd be facing this kind of.... sedition...and betrayal of our common cause." Aemilianus said nothing, he knew that look well and was reasonably confident that the Natufian would come to the right decision. Almost on que the man suddenly sat erect, his conflicted expression replaced with one of stony determination. “I have trained my life to fight for the Commonwealth and fight I will to preserve her. I have drilled my militia to fight with strength and heart and so we shall!"
Aemilianus clasped a bear-like paw on Durrils shoulder in agreement. Before he could add anything though, Chiefess Kostana cleared her throat meaningfully.
“As the Dux said, let us hope it does not come to that. Yet it might. When Benjamin…excuse me.” She grinned girlishly, giving a flush of youthful beauty to the aged face. “When the High Chief asked me to raise the militia, I knew what the stakes were and what we were preparing for."
Durril looked to Kostana. “May I ask, Chiefess, how well you know the High Chief?"
The older woman looked up with a smile at the ceiling for a flash before looking to Durril. “Benjamin is a dear friend. Our great-grandparents made peace between the Oren and Shuqba back in the days of the Natufian Confederation before the Commonwealth. You know…” She extended a bony finger towards the Commander. “Our families even thought to have us betrothed at one point. But....other events interfered…but that’s another story.” The old woman suddenly looked sad. “But that’s another story. Ben and I know each other well and I trust him. He has excellent judgement."

Aemilianus, who found his attention had begun to wander, abruptly was jolted back to earth as the chiefess’s eyes met his. “Dux, we are in your hands! Commander Durril has the militia at the ready. I would, of course, prefer to keep them in province but if needed, I am prepared to allow him to attach his units to yours as a joint force."
“Indeed, sir.” Added Durril appearing to be a little anxious. “there may be a good political reason for doing so, not that it's my place to second-guess the Chiefess."
Herein lay the nub of the problem, reflected Aemilianus. He wasn’t totally sure how the command structure of the Natufian guard worked, but he felt it was a safe bet he was one of, if not the, highest ranked officer in Natufia. Aside from his Imperial Highness- who Aemilianus had it on good authority had shacked up in a palace on the shore- and the Proconsul, he was the ranking Roman for sure, but he was still technically assigned to Pannonia. Unless he was given overall command in Natufia, a significant boon to his carrier for sure, he only had jurisdiction over the three regimenta he’d brought with him…as well as any other forces he could detach from the neighbouring province.
“Alas as of right now I lack the authority to issue direct orders to the Natufian Guard...however." Aemilianus stroked his beard thoughtfully. “If the Chieftain wouldn’t mind accepting some friendly advice?”
"You may always speak your mind in my Lodge, Dux."
The general winked conspiratorially. “How many regiments are at the Oren’s disposal?”
Durril leaned over the map. “We have three fully-ready, here and here.” He pointed to the relevant positions. “But we have a priority call system and a second wave of units being called to formation as we speak."
Aemilianus was secretly astounded. The call to raise the militia had only come down a few days ago, even the Roman army would struggle to put together those sorts of units in that time. Though he thought, glancing over to Kostana. If the willy old chieftain had issued the call, or at least had prepared to do so, on the former High Chief’s death…that might just explain it.
Starting to see Kostana in a new light, Aemilianus now turned to address her directly. “How are relations between Alber and Nahal, if you’ll forgive my ignorance. I’m new to the Province.” Plus, the last thing he needed was to have to solve petty disputes when they got to Ein Gev.
Kostana interlocked her fingers and pressed them to her lips. “We are on quite friendly terms. But you will find Alber and Chief Nampe a bit more traditional. They even have a male chief!” Her voice had taken on an element of teasing, that the General found genuinely amusing, but quickly grew graver. “But seriously, my dear Aemilianus, they have benefited much with all the transit passing through the region. However, when you get south of Ein Gev, into Taqba, you will find the chiefs there much more agitated and less friendly. Many of the chiefs there supported Chief Masum in the Conclave. I don't know Masum well, but I don´t like the things I hear. Anyway, forgive a woman's prattle. To your question, yes, Alber and the Oren have had our differences in the past but are on good terms."

The Bear General leaned back in his chair, ostensibly lost in thought, but his eyes didn’t leave the map for a second. “In which case.” He said carefully. “I’d highly recommend that anything south of Alber be considered hostile territory to the northern tribes and that the Oren dispatch two of their fine divisions to come south and aid the defence of their neighbours." Those fateful words said, Aemilianus caught Durril’s gaze. “If you wish, Commander you may stay in Nahal Orsen and organise the defence of your people. However, should you have a desire to lead your men to Ein Gev, your unique perspective on both the Imperium and Natufia could be a valued asset to me there."
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Prefect Paulus, who had been dutifully taking notes, shift a little in his seat. Paulus may be the type of adjunct who took any perceived threat to his position very seriously. It was understandable, such a mindset would have helped keep him safe under Vipasnius Agrippa’s capricious command, but still Aemilianus would have to keep an eye on it. It wasn’t totally unheard of for Imperial Officers to attempt to try and discreetly remove potential rivals.
Durril looked to his chieftain who nodded nonchalantly. “With the east secure, Abdel is the bottleneck any aggressor has to get through. I can best defend Nahal by making sure that bottleneck in never breached. I will take two divisions south and move the third to the Nahal southern border. Here in Nahal Orsen, I can leave the new unit formation to my captains and decide deployment later.” He stood straight and met Aemilianus’ gaze. “It would be an honour to march south with you, sir.”

Leaping to his feet with an energy that belayed his years, the General closed his eyes and raised his head to the sky. “May Mars Pater show us favour in war.” He grinned; eyes still firmly shut. “And may Venus Callipygous show us mercy in the brothel!” Opening his eyes, he suddenly remembered Kostana was still sitting opposite him and had the good graces to at least look embarrassed. “Ah, my apologies, Chiefess…an old soldier’s prayer.”
She favoured him with an endearing smile. “You may have learned the temperament of woman from your wife and daughters, I have learned about the temperament of men from my late husband and my sons. May Mars give you swift victory so the noble goddess Concordia can again bless our land....and may the Great Aurochs watch over you all."
The Bear General bowed his head. “I thank you, noble Chieftain for your hospitality.”
Remembering that he himself had sacral duties to perform as a guest, he unbuckled his sword from his side and gently placed it on the table. It was a fine weapon, possessing a carved ivory handle which was complemented beautifully with a jet-black pommel carved in the shape of a bear’s head. The blade itself was hidden in an ebony scabbard inlayed with golden imagery of various animals running down the centre, but Aemilianus always made sure even his ceremonial weapons were in prime conditioning.
“As your gracious guest, In accordance with the customs of Jupiter Optimus Maximus. I gift the Oren my sword, may you take it as proof of my firm intentions to defend your nation as long as I am able."
The Chiefess returned the bow. “I shall hang this sword here in this lodge, for all the people of the Oren to see and know that our friends to the north are just and trustworthy. In return, please take this with you.” Kostana took from a nearby end table a hide-bound parcel. She placed it on the table and carefully unwraps it to reveal a glazed, terracotta urn with ancient tribal markings on it. “This comes from the time before the Commonwealth. When making peace with other tribes, they would breathe the breath of their life into it, cut the palm to bleed drops of the blood of life into it and then make their solemn vow over it. It is believed it holds the honour of the Natufian people who have sworn upon it.” She held the artifact out to the General. “Take this, then, for when you return the belligerent tribes to the Commonwealth. And may it find a place in your home as a symbol of our friendship and thanks.”

Aemilianus took it cautiously, wondering just how fragile it was and dreading what accidently dropping it would do to his chances of being given military command of the Province. “A most generous and gracious gift, Chiefess. You may consider the Minicii and myself a firm friend of the Oren.”
The pleasantries take care of, Minicus Aemilianus looked once again to Commander Faustinus. “It appears, Commander that we will have our match in Ein Gev. We must prepare to leave at once.”

Ra'aya Ahmadi: The Aspirant Anchor
New Jericho, Jericho State, Commonwealth of Natufia
a.d. VI Eid. 2130 AUNC

The camera focus zoomed in on the upper body and face of an olive-skinned woman in her early thirties. She was dressed smartly, a deep green dress embroidered with tribal Natufian symbology clearly tailored towards modesty that nevertheless managed to accentuate her natural curves and slim shoulders. She wore only a little makeup; her deep brown eyes encircled with a hint of kohl, her lips darkly rouged and a sparing concealer that highlighted high firm cheekbones and an angular nose. Her long dark hair was laboriously tied into a long ponytail that hung over her shoulder in the traditional style. Likewise, her ears were pieced in the traditional form and discreetly adorned with various gold-silver studs. Her slender hands rested gently on a stylish desk, but the camera was naturally drawn to her sorrow filled eyes which lingered on the lens for a heartbeat or two.
A tiny microphone clipped to her neckline picked up on her solemn tone as she spoke gently to the nation. “This is the Natufian News Service news at ten, I’m Ra'aya Ahmadi. Our top story tonight.” Ra’aya gulped. “We have just received information that Chief Tabuk Baidha, his wife and his younger children have been murdered in the City of Oshala. While no group has yet to take responsibility for this abhorrent act recovered CCTV footage, exclusively provided to the NNS, proves beyond a doubt the identity of the murderers. The following footage is highly distressing and viewer discretion is advised.

The screen cuts to blown up, but still clear, footage of a large man being forced to kneel on tarmac. To the side of him- and right in the camera line- was a small group of individuals being held at gunpoint by masked soldiers, a red symbol standing out against the murky green of their uniform. While the exact identities of the terrified group were hard to discern due to the dark, three of their number were distinctly smaller than the others and were huddled against a feminine looking figure their body language reeking of pure fear.
A solitary person abruptly came into shot. They were obviously female, that much could be identified from their silhouette, but the angle of the camera and the distance involved did little to provide any notable characteristics. In one swift motion the woman raised a short-nosed pistol, pressed it straight to the man’s temple and blew his brains out.
The lack of audio only served to underscore the gruesome image of the large man slumping to the ground, surrounded by large globules of grey matter and shattered fragments of his own skull. The horrified, if blurry, expressions of the group were all to clear and the feminine figure dropped to her knees gripping the smaller ones tightly.
A single callous nod from the executioner decided their fate. The assembled soldiers lowered their sub-machine guns and pitilessly opened fire on the crowd. The slaughter lasted mere seconds, most died quickly but others were not so lucky. Among the heap of corpses a few desperate survivors clung desperately to life, easily identifiable by their sporadic twitching that disturbed the ever-growing pool of blood. A pair of soldiers casually walked over to inspect the heap and began finishing off the few survivors with carefree abandon. The footage ends with a solider holding his sidearm straight to the head of the smallest figure, desperately clinging to its mothers’ bullet-ridden corpse before its head too was splattered over the remains of its kin.
A series of digitally enhanced stills came next. The first showing an image of a painted symbol on the truck: a red auroch with a crimson star betwixt its horns. The second showing the same icon on the shoulders off the impromptu firing squad. The third showed a sharper image of the final killing. The figure was a small girl, no more than four years old, her face covered in viscera and her expression that of pure shock and instinctive fear as she looked up to her murderer: Auroch symbol proudly displayed.

“The following…” Ra’aya choked back the emotion in her voice. “The following was provided with a statement from the High Chief’s office: ‘We can confirm that the victims were indeed Chief Tabuk Baidha; his wife, Shiva Karimi; his second son, Mahadi Baidha; his youngest son, Manouchehr Baidha and his only daughter, Aram Baidha. We can also confirm that the perpetrators of this heinous massacre were undoubtably the Communist Red Horn movement, lead by the terrorist Renzo Ikstafen, who have claimed responsibility for numerous petty actions over the years. All Natufia is in morning for the loss of one of our great chiefs and we promise swift and decisive justice will be delivered upon Ikstafen and his band of socialist thugs and murderers.’”

The camera panned out to reveal two older men in smart suits seated to Ra’aya’s left.
“We’re joined in the studio tonight.” Ra’aya said, her voice steadying as she continued. “By Doctor Keghan Hematti, a forensic specialist, and Professor Asaf Nabavian, Head of Tribal Law at Bogazici University. Gentlemen, thank you for joining us at such short notice.” Both men nodded in acknowledgement, their pale visages, and clenched jaws evidence of their own discomfort at the disturbing scenes. “Doctor Hematti, can you provide any of the victim’s perspective to the disgusting murders we just witnessed?”
“Well…speaking from a purely dispassionate perspective you understand…” The doctor coughed a little. “It’s clear to me that Chief Tabuk was granted the cleanest end. His executioner’s weapon was high calibre enough and sufficiently close to grant a near instantaneous death… if gory.” His skin appeared to take on a fresh pallor but Hematti ploughed through “The unfortunate individuals killed by firing squad we’re not all so fortunate. The bullet spray seemed too low to make contact with the brain and therefore most- if not all- of the victims would have been acutely aware of any bullet contact and would have experienced not inconsiderable pain before expiring.”
“And those who survived the initial assault, such as young Aram?”
Hematti shifted in his seat uncomfortably when the little girl’s name was mentioned. “That would indicate these poor souls at best, managed to avoid being severely hit and at worse did not suffer enough initial physical trauma to enter immediate Cardiac Shock.”
“Cardiac Shock?” Asked Ra’aya.
“The professional term for the body’s reaction to extreme blood loss or blunt trauma.” Clarified the doctor. “In layman’s terms: it is the process of the body shutting down after circulation is compromised, it is rather more sudden than one would expect…a mercy from the Great Auroch. The…’twitching’ figures would have experienced the rather unpleasant aftermath of having their body torn apart. They would choke as their lungs began to fill with blood, provided of course they hadn’t collapsed. The pain would have been agonising since the nervous system can continue to function even as the brain shuts down. It’s just a matter of…neurotransmitters…really…”
The man trailed off, rubbing his own arm, disquieted by his own testimony.

“Thank you, Doctor Hematti.” Said Ra’aya looking like she wanted to vomit but determined to resume. “Professor Nabavian, is there any precedent for such a distressing action in Tribal Law?”
The Professor simply looked into the distance for a few seconds, thin face fixed in his own brand of shock, but he soon came to his senses. “While there have been many cases of inter and intra tribal feuds escalating into mutual familicide…” He balked slightly. “The ‘Red Horn’ movement is neither an established tribe nor clearly affiliated with one. According to the judicial codes established by the First Natufian Commonwealth, any intertribal feud must be officially declared before assembled representatives of the tribes accompanied with material evidence of injustice.” The old man’s features hardened. “Furthermore, the killings can only be considered legitimate if perpetrated by another Chieftain or a second-tiered leader from within the tribe. Renzo Ikstafen, as the son of a merchant, has no right to order the deaths of a Chieftan…particularly one of Tabuk Baidha’s standing.”
“So, these murders have no legal standing, even in the archaic codes?”
“That would be correct. These socialists are murderers and deserve to be dragged before the Council of Elders for their sacrilege.”

Both Ra’aya and Doctor Hematti nodded in assent before the former thanked the two for their time and turned back to camera. “With the death of Chief Tabuk, the leadership of the Baidha and the governance of Oshala State falls to his eldest son: Saham Baidha who thankfully was attending school in the Roman Imperium during the massacre. We all here at NNS offer pleas to the Great Auroch for the spirits of the slain Baidha and hope that the Socialist menace is exterminated by our new High Chief as soon as possible. For more we go to our Doha correspondent, Acabay Mardin. Acabay?”

by **Conciliary Socialist Republics** » Fri Mar 26, 2021 6:13 am

The Soldier
Eastern Steppes, three days before the revolution, 13:00 local time

Captain Karamazov's Column on the March

Exercises. Exercises. It’s as if that was the only word in command’s lexicon. A tanned young man caked with layers of grime and dust peered into an equally dusty pairs of binoculars, staring at the sun scorched horizon. From somewhere beneath him, from within the steel beast out of which he leaned out came a muffled question:
“Tasch Captain, are we moving yet?”
The young man sighed, dropping the binoculars so they hung around his neck on a strap and eased himself into the tank. Despite the scorching heat outside, the air conditioning unit of the vehicle was making a remarkable effort in keeping the air inside at a temperature at least resembling that of a cool summer day, but the smell of sweat, dust and burnt electronics did little to help create that feeling.
Staring at a paper map (the tank’s navigation and friendly force tracker software had been turned off to stimulate an environment of electronic breakdown) the young man swore.
“Mother of a Roman! Why are all the bloody hills in this blasted steppe identical!”
The 3rd breakthrough tank company had been sent forward of their battalion column to scout and rendezvous with the reconnaissance company of the regiment. Their goal was to secure the flank and create a springboard for the rest of the battalion to breach through. Third’s advance had been easy to this point, a simple imitation anti-tank nest was the sole enemy they had come across. Although the “nest” was a little more than some painted plastic tubes and laser emitters, the computers on his own tanks had been specifically trained to simulate failures in accordance with the hits of the fake enemy. Using the overwhelming fire superiority of their guns, they simply buried the position beneath several dozen shells. Overkill if you ask the captain, but the poor simulated bastards couldn’t even pull off a single shot.
Then something went wrong. The company lost its bearings. Captain Karamazov sighed and turned to his driver: “Turn ‘er off, I’m getting out, going to consult with Petrovich in the command car, maybe he has a better idea. “
He tapped the button for his company net: “Company, halt, break formation and camouflage.”
Then, grunting as he pulled himself out of the heavy tank into the burning heat of day, he climbed off of his tank and jogged to the company-command vehicle. Technically, he could have been commanding the unit from within it’s armoured, and sensor ridden depths, while the KSHMBs own commander would have taken over the command duties on Karamazov’s tank, but Vladmir hated the air-conditioned and sterile interior of the command vehicle, leaving it to his deputy, Senior Lieutenant Brylyev, or Petrovich as he was known. Petrovich had lived and breathed tanks for the last 20 years, starting as a driver and working his way up the ranks, eventually passing the officer courses required to command a tank of his own (albeit from the 3rd try) and later still advancing up two ranks. Despite his apparent slow progress, Petrovic had become an expert in tank operations, but declined the offer of promotion to captain, sighting his unwillingness to actually command such a large unit. He was also the only man in the unit to have actual combat experience, during the brief war in the North-West.
As Karamazov made his way to the command vehicle, he spotted Petrovich, lazily lounging on the roof of his vehicle. Noticing his commander, Petrovich nodded to him and lazily still clambered down from his perch.
“Lost are we Volodya?”
“I don’t know? Are we Petrovich?”
Petrovich scratched his cheek, glanced down at his watch, then looked back up at the captain.
“Well… hate to ruin the moment comrade captain, but by my calculations, we are just 15 minutes short of the rendezvous point.”
Karamazov furrowed his brow. “Then where is hill 475?”
After a brief pause, in which Petrovich scratched his head, he pointed his finger in the direction of the previous movement. “That lil’ hill over there.”
“That? That’s our reference point!?”
The hill in question could barely be bestowed such a name, thought Karamazov. A mound seemed more appropriate. It blended so effectively with the steppe and the low grey horizon that he almost missed it the first time he followed Petrovich’s finger.
“Yeaaaa” Petrovich extended the vowels, deep in some thought of his own.
“Damn.” Karamazov angrily spat and turned back to his tank, keying the company radio net via his tablet:
“Belay last order, everybody saddle up, we leave in three. Move your asses.”

…

The Politician
Oshala City, 21:00 Natufia Eastern Time (UTC-8)
As evening settled over the city of the new revolution, Red Horn troops, reinforced by Baidha gunmen who defected from Chief Tabuk, patrol Oshala and the surrounding Baidha lands, quelling panic, maintaining order and reassuring the populace they are now "free from the tyranny of the autocrat and the bourgeois establishment". Sporadic gunfire erupts from clashes between the Chief’s few remaining supporters and the militia, but aside from that, an eerie quite and darkness befell the city.

Meanwhile, Renzo and his circle, barring Amsha and her two lieutenants who left for their own mission earlier in the evening, had taken over the City Hall and key government buildings. Renzo having occupied Tabuk’s old office, as his aides searched for any intel that survived the loyalist purge, shredders, and fire. Renzo lounged with a feeling of satisfaction in the plush, leather upholstered swivel chair behind a cluttered dark oak desk. He drummed his fingers on the dark import oak, pulled out a small cell phone, an old fashioned, but reliable design. The revolutionary dialed a number and brang the silver brick to his ear.

Novosergeevsk, Same time
A sturdy man with dark, greying hair, lets the phone ring for several seconds before picking up. "Office of the Minister of Heavy Industry, Shapilov on the line."
Renzo’s glee is audible even through the noise of the unreliable interstate satellite system: "Comrade Shapilov! Ikstafen here. I am very pleased to report Operation Bull Charge was a success. The Red Horn is now in effective control of the Baidha lands and the capital, Oshala. In fact, I am calling you from the ex-chief's office. We're opening the windows to air out the stench of the bourgeois pig. We had little resistance, as predicted. The people are ready for better leadership and hungry for a better life than under Tabuk's regime. Anyway, I'm about to make a public statement to the press. But I first wanted to give you the news and confirm support from your side. As we discussed, with the failure of the Conclave, there is no legitimate High Chief so we can lawfully declare autonomy, but I wanted to check on your progress with members of the Supreme Soviet to recognize us. Do you still think that will happen?"
Shapilov smiles at the news, and adjusts his tie before speaking:
"Comrade Renzo, it is great to hear of the success of our mutual goal. Speaking of the ex-chief, however did you convince him to leave power? I was under the impression that Tabuk was not a man who would back down easily. As for the Supreme Soviet? Well, they would recognize you overnight, as soon as you'd make the proclamation, and I doubt that the Council of Ministers would have any issue with it. So yes, I believe the Concilian front should be secure."
"Excellent! With the UCSR at our back, we are sure to flourish and spread the revolution. Our cells in Harif and elsewhere are being activated even now. As for Tabuk, I'm afraid he had a lot of influence here and was feared by many. He was sacrificed to secure the success of the revolution. I was convinced by the Baidha themselves who supported us that as long as he remained alive, we would not be secure."
Shapilov frowns, and picks up his pen, scribbling something in an open notebook before him:
"Ah so he is dead? That is a shame. I am afraid our enemies might use this to their advantage, but no matter, no matter. We must also focus on his family - re-educate them in the way of Socialism, make them denounce their father and husband! We had a success with our Tsars, so we have a mechanism that works. "
Renzo now shifting uncomfortably in his seat and sounding more sombre and meeker:
"Ah, yes, that was my intention as well. But please understand, comrade, the tribal feuds here in the Baidha lands are still primitive. Some of the soldiers, well, they followed the old customs. The chief's family was, again according to the old customs.... unfortunately.... eliminated as a future threat. But...no matter, it will be regarded as part of a feud and the glory of the revolution will outshine any negative feeling. What is important now is that we continue with our momentum."
Shapilov, begins coughing visibly surprised and shocked, he pauses to catch his breath before continuing sternly, with a hint of steel audible in his voice.
"You're meaning to tell me that your men killed kids?! We must pray to god that this information is left between the two of us." Shapilov pauses and rubs his temple with his free hand, "I'll try to keep this information out of the Supreme Soviet as it could generate .... some rather unfortunate press... But you must understand, I must report this to the MGB, if they have not yet heard it already.” The minister pauses for another breath: “I will contact you to keep you updated. But for now, let’s see past that and concentrate on the third and fourth parts of this plan." Shapilov pauses once more before concluding: "Long live the revolution!"
Renzo sounds relieved as he hurries a reply:
"Yes, comrade, of course, of course. Believe me, it sounds worse than it is. It's just.... how tribal politics are handled here.... more reasons to end this senseless system and bring a government run by and for the people, with resources distributed fairly." Renzo pauses as peruse a paper handed to him by an aide, "Yes, let's move forward. I will announce and you will send some material support immediately, yes? Just so you know, I am looking at a report left on Tabuk's desk. Apparently, he was concerned about the possibility there were covert Praetorian Intelligence agents operating in the area. If there is any truth to it, your help is needed more urgently than ever. Long live the revolution!”

…

The Officer
Novosergeevsk, 01:00 SET (UTC-5)
A phone call. The tiny device rings and vibrates on the bedside table. With a groan, the man rubs his eyes and picks up the flatscreen communicator.
“Chizhov on the phone.”
“Vasiliy sorry for the late call. We’ve got a situation on our hands. Report to General Spahic’s office as soon as you can.”
“Spahic? Arkadiy Pavlovich? Not yours?”
“No Vasiliy, the General needs our department and its heads. You’re one of them. See you soon.”
Vasiliy Chizhov listened to the monotonous beeping of his phone for several seconds, before getting out of bed. He quickly dressed, scribbled a note for his son and left his apartment. At the base of the nine-storey building, a car waited. Chizhov approached the black Dera and without saying a word to the driver, got in. The car took off into the night, occasionally turning on a small blue flashing light mounted above the driver as it approached an intersection. As the black sedan sped through the sleeping city, Chizhov wondered what the late-night call was about – after all, counterintelligence work in the last couple of months had been dreadfully slow, with intelligence gathering operations taking the forefront. He knew of course that this was related to the most recent crisis, the Natufian conflict, but the exact details were yet unknown to him. At least for now.
MGB Headquarters, Novosergeevsk, shortly after
Chizhov reclined on his chair and stared at several plans of the city. His boss, Major-General Arkadiy Pavlovich Bryzov, head of the MGB’s counterintelligence service sat opposite him, as Spahic, Minister for State Security paced the room. The other members of his department filed out, having received their assignments in the meeting prior.
Spahic turned around and sat back into his chair, and tapped the table with his knuckles, before letting out a sigh. “Well, these measures should prevent our press from having a field day, and we’ll also be running our usual channels to check for data leaks, but the situation isn’t great. The damn Romans ran the tape on all national stations – we’re risking the Supreme Soviet withdrawing their support of the Natufian affair. So.” Spahic paused in thought.
Seizing the opportunity, Bryzov spoke up: “Well, what’s done is done, but we could prevent further leaks. Someone on the inside, very close to the revolution is a Roman agent. We know that the Praetorians have a sophisticated network there, mostly totally legal, but they surely have a contact. Or several. We need to narrow it down.”
Chizhov smiled: “And that’s where I come in”
The generals nodded in unison, Spahic taking the first word: “Call Renzo directly, tell him you’ve been appointed as a counterintelligence specialist to him. But, keep him on a need-to-know basis. Keep the people who know why you’re there to a minimum. I take your journalist degree is still valid.”
Chizhov chuckled uneasily: “Oh yes, and I’ve been meaning to finish my dissertation on Natufian politics. Mission aside, this would have been a fascinating trip.”
Spahic nodded, stood up and extended his hands to the Bryzov and Chizhov.
“Comrades, good luck.”
The two men accepted the gesture and turned to leave. Just as Chizhov was about to leave, Spahic remarked: “Time to see if the pen is truly mightier than the sword.”

Oshala, same time.
Renzo, currently reviewing a map of Red Horn troop distribution with his commanders, weary from the long day jumped when his phone gave all too familiar jingle of an incoming call. He frowned worriedly seeing the unknown Slavic number flash on the screen, but, drew a sharp breath, pushed the answer button and raised the telephone to his ear.
"Renzo Ikstafen here"
"Comrade Ikstafen? Hope I'm not interrupting anything too important. This is Colonel of State Security Chizhov, the Ministry has assigned me to assist you with security and counterintelligence. I was wondering if you could provide me some transportation and information."
Renzo sighed with relief: "Comrade Colonel, it is a pleasure to hear from you. Of course, my forces are at your disposal. If you can fly into the Oshala airbase, I will have an honor guard meet you and escort you to the People's Government Building. I can give you a full briefing on our situation on your arrival. Unless there is anything you need ahead of time?"
"No that would be great. Although, any possibility we could get rid of the honour guard? I prefer my arrival to have possible deniability so I will arrive with several Slavic journalists. Oshala airbase did you say?"
"No, of course, I understand your need for a low-profile arrival. If you have journalists with you, I suggest a civilian flight into Oshala Regional Airport. Look for a taxi with a driver wearing a red beret. He will be my man and take you to government house."
"Ah that sounds good, Oshala Regional. Will note it down. If I recall correctly a scheduled flight to Novosergeevsk is departing today, so expect me then. And if it is alright with you, could you recommend a hotel where I could stay with the journalists? After the visit to the house of government of course"
Renzo muttered something to his aide, before receiving some kind of stamped piece of paper:"Ah, right, we just booked you a room at the Kaby Hotel, on the lakefront. We also reserved a half dozen other rooms for some of the journalists. We can also requisition a vacant apartment for your use if you prefer a longer and more incognito stay. My men will stay parked on the street in an unmarked car and be at your disposal any time." Renzo paused a moment, contemplating something: "In addition to your more covert help, comrade, I do hope we can look forward to a more visible diplomat to visit us on behalf of the UCSR. It will help our public positioning."
“That can be arranged Comrade Renzo. See you tomorrow.”

…

Somewhere over the Slavic border, 11:00 next day

Air Slavacia 1099 with Escorts

“This is Air Slavacia one-zero-niner-niner request departure clearance from controlled airspace”
A sing-song voice, slightly muffled by the radio replied: “Air Slavacia one-zero-niner-niner, clearance to exit national airspace confirmed, transferring you to National Border Control Centre, check in on one five three decimal six.”
“153.6, Air Slavacia 1099, have a great day.”

“Center Air Slavacia 1099 requesting vector and echelon to Natufia. Good morning comrades.”
“Very good morning Air Slavacia 1099, fly heading 304, echelon ten thousand”
“Copy, 1099, head 304, level at 10000m.”
“Stand by Air Slavacia 1099, we’re requested to patch you through to Northern Military District Air Control, change frequency to one nine six decimal two. See you soon”
“169.2 Air Slavacia 1099”

“Milcon Air Slavacia 1099 requesting directions.”
“Air Slavacia 1099, standby to rendezvous with escort, callsign of lead is 501 on 169.3, do not communicate with pilots unless necessary. Have a safe flight.”
“Roger 501 169.3, do not communicate, switching back to NBCC. Goodbye.”
“Bye.”

by **Skjoldur** » Mon Apr 12, 2021 1:57 pm

Temple of Astero, Háfjall Mountain, Krikja Region, Skjoldur
Bjorn closed his eyes trying to find his best to feel Astero’s presence, he tried to clear his mind looking for the wisdom of the all-farther. But nothing came all Bjorn could feel was the icy winds smashing against his face. Bjorn sighed clearly the all farther didn’t feel like granting wisdom his today. He opened his eyes and looked around, what a view, he thought. The mountain was the highest in Steri-ar and Bjorn could seen for miles around. He felt a calming peace fall over him, “how could someone feel stressed with such a view”. Bjorn though back to his meeting ten days ago.

The Temple of Ast, Haven City, Haven, Skjoldur, 10 days ago
The temple was grand, to grand in Bjorn’s eyes. He was a traditionalist and did not like this new trend of aggrandising temples. The gods had spent 5000 year being worshiped in small traditional huts and now suddenly, they wanted giant buildings filled with gold and silver? Bjorn shook his head, no this wasn’t the gods, this was Kartjan, the king had been awed by his trip to Rome, so easily was he influenced that one look at the way the Romans worshiped with all their ceremony’s and self-aggrandising and he wanted to copy it. Bjorn sighed; this was the way thing were going. If Kartjan had it his way Skjoldur would be nothing more then a Roman puppet.
The room itself was grand a set of chairs surrounded a large fire pit and the circular root ladened with jewels glimmered above. The room was circular and ladened around it were assortment of statues of Ast the goddess of love. An assortment of Jarls from all over Skjoldur sat around the fire arguing.
Bjorn looked up at the looming statue of Ast, the goddess of love, even that annoyed him, in the old days she was old hangered women who had experienced and lost love and wanted to pass on her experience to younger people, now Kartjan was looking up at a young beautiful women in a scantily clad dress. Bjorn bit his tongue; this was another thing that showed the encroaching threat of Romanism. Only the Romans could have been so dumb as to mistake love for lust.

As Bjorn pondered the people around him were in a heated argument. In typical Skjoldurian fashion the threats of grievous bodily harm and threats to drink the other under the table. The commotion stemmed from a comment made by Jarl Hallstein Irisson the leader of the Rhaetians clan. Irisson had made a comment about some nasty rumours associated with Jarl Asny Krakidottir and her obsession with the Vale and human sacrifice. This sparked a heated argument about ancient feuds, Bjorn waited patiently pondering, he had learned by now that the only way to keep the conversation moving was to let the conversation die down. If he spoke up someone else would chime in talking about something his family had done in the past and then a whole new argument would be brought up. Bjorn glanced at his brother Jarl Thrain Hagerman who just smirked at him, he seemed to be enjoying the show. Bjorn looked around seeing how the other Jarls were reacting, Jarl Sigfus Thorstarsson the host was sitting there looking bemused, her daughter Thyre was staring in the fire occasionally moaning that her phone had been taken off her. To her left Jarl Eric Bloodaxe of the Bloodaxe clan was engrossed in the argument occasionally chiming in trying to turn the argument in a full-blown fight. Next to him Jarl Olav Haraldsson of the Black Bear Clan seemed disinterested to busy eying up Thyre. At the back of the room Jarl Throst Biorsson of the Beowulf clan watched with a intense look in his eyes. Bjorn’s eyes narrowed; he knew when he invited Throst that there was a possibility that he’d betray him. The Beowulf clan were strong and power-hungry, and you’d can never trust them, but for now Throst seemed on their side. Finally, Bjorn’s eyes landed on Jarl Halfdan Ragnarsson, frankly Bjorn had been surprised that Ragnarsson had even turned up, but then Bjorn remembered that there was free alcohol. Ragnarsson was on his 12th beer and was more interested the priestess then the argument that was breaking out all around him.

All though the meeting had descended in chaos Bjorn couldn’t help but marvel at the achievement. Somehow he had manged to bring nine tribe together to talk about removing a king, not since the days of King Gorm the terrible had such an thing been achieved. As Bjorn held up his glass for some more wine he noticed that the argument had subsided Asny had yelled something about here great, great, great grandfather been owed an ox and Hallstein had grumbled something about been cheated out of a deal and it seemed that was as far back as anyone could remember and the argument had simmered down. He sighed and stood up,

“well ladies and gentlemen, now we’ve got that out of the way I like to go back to the original discussion, I need your help claiming the crown, as you know that false leader Kartjan is leading are nation to disaster, ” Bjorn paused as he examined the faces that surrounded him,

“this so called king has forsaken are traditions and wants to turn us into some client state. He has not only abandoned the ways of Astero but forsaken the right to rule”.

The jarls stirred but none of them spoke, a few seconds of silence passed before Bjorn decided to carry on with his speech.

“Now I propose that with your help we can dispel of Kartjan in one fell swoop”.

Bjorn was about to carry on when a burst of laughter interrupted him. The room turned to see Ragnarsson in the corner laughing into his cup of mead. Bjorn turned to him in anger and said “what’s so funny Jarl Ragnarsson, this is a serious matter that could decide the fate of the entire of Skjoldur”.

Ragnnarson so smirked and turned to Bjorn eyeing him up and down. “Young one” Ragnarsson said in a hushed tone that forced all the Jarls to strain to hear him,

“I have been alive for 89 years, do you know how many of these meetings I’ve been involved in? How many Jarls I’ve sat with listening to the same shit over and over again”. Bjorn’s faced reddened “I assure you this is far more important then any meeting you’ve been in before, the people you talked to before were power hungry and selfish”.

Ragnarsson burst into another fit of laughter “oh I see, your not selfish, ask me this then, when we dispose of Kartjan, when all is right in the world who’s going rule, you? What gives you the right to rule over everyone else?”.

Bjorn froze, he had planned on plying the group with a little more alcohol before he had proposed this part of the plan. He looked back at the other Jarls who were looking at him intently. He knew that they were all waiting for it, he was of course the logical choice well liked by the people, didn’t have any existing feuds with any other clan and was strong enough to take on any other clan. The problem was broaching it, Jarls are notoriously prideful and phrasing it the wrong way to lead to problems in the long run. As he turned towards the Jarls trying to work out what to say Jarl Throst Biorsson stood up walked from the corner he was sitting into the centre of the room and grabbed another bottle of mead. Turning towards Bjorn Throst took a purposely long sip of mead making sure that everyone one in the room was waiting on him. After what seemed like an age Throst turned but down his cup. Bjorn tensed, he wasn’t sure what Throst was going to say but he was sure it wasn’t going to be good.

Throst eyed Bjorn up and down then locked eyes with him “listen kid”

Throst said in a stern voice “I think we can speak for all of us when I say, were not going to help you” he let his sentence hang in the air, to see if anyone would resit him. When no one did he continued

“Kartjan is a fool and a weak fool at that, but if we get involved his allies will stir up and it will be a full blown civil war, and with the Romans and the commies closing in this nation cannot afford to be weakened.” Bjorn turned to the rest of the Jarls exasperated, “so your going to let this man destroy us, take away everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve?” Bjorn said the passion in his voice clear. “No” said Throst calmly “you and your men are going to take him on”.

Bjorn smeared “you do know that the Skjoldurian regular army has more men than any Jarldom, they make sure of it”. Throst gave Bjorn a look of disappointment on his face,

“Kartjan sent half his army to Meridia to set up the Kingdom of Meridia for his idiotic son, if you attack now your numbers should be equal to his”. Bjorn eyes narrowed “so” Bjorn said lowering his tone “whilst I’m sending my men into battle risking my life to destroy Kartjan, you guys will be sitting here relaxing watching from the sidelines?”

“Pretty much” laughed Ragnarsson “but look at it this way, if you win you will be king”

“And you guys will just accept that?” asked Bjorn suspission rising

“Of course” said Throst

Bjorn turned back towards the other Jarls hoping at least one of them would offer some kind of support, when none came he swore, turning back to Throst he said

“fine, I’ll do this myself, but when I’m king I’ll remember this” he then stormed out of the building leaving the doors flying of their hinges as he left.
Ragnarson turned towards Throst “
reckon he will win?”

“Who cares” replied Throst “either way were fucked”.

Temple of Astero, Háfjall Mountain, Krikja Region, Skjoldur, Present Time

Bjorn got up, he had been kneeling on the temple balcony for an hour now, watching the sunset in the horizon. Now he knew it was time, he left the balcony and entered the small room he had been given. It was simple as was the custom, one bed, one desk, a small cupboard and a copy of the Skjoldurian spirit, the Skjoldur’s holy text. Bjorn had been in this room for seven days, reflecting and praying surviving on minimum food and water. He knew that waiting so long was risky but he had no choice, he had to do this the right way. He undressed from his simple robe and then opened his wardrobe. A simple bearskin lay before him, one of the most important items in Skjoldur. This was the first bear killed by the first Skjoldurian king Rollo Frost, he had killed a bear with his bare hands and had used the meat to feed his starving soldiers for a month. He wore the skin as a trophy and ever since any king or queen wore this in the ceremony. As Bjorn donned the skin he felt a sense of pride, he was wearing something that very few people had even seen, the sense of occasion dawned on him and for a second he felt weak at the knees. He paused a second and took a breath, this was what he wanted, what he needed, what Skjoldur needed and he wouldn’t let them down, not now.
Ten minutes later Bjorn exited the room, he was wearing the bear skin and nothing else, he wondered down the hall towards the main hall, he arrived at the giant door that lead the main hall, outside two servants waited. Bjorn stood in between them and staring at the door, on the other side was his destiny, on the other side was history.

Royal Palace, Skagafjoror, Leiotogi, Skjoldur

“He did what?”, the messenger winced, king Kartjan may be old and frail with a belly sticking out a mile long but the two guards that flanked him were not, indeed they were muscular, tall and most importantly, very mean looking.

“He crowned himself king your majesty, in a ceremony at the temple of Astero”.

Kartjan stared at him for a few seconds then turned to his advisor Superbus Bastardus

“how is this possible?” Bastardus shrugged turning towards the rest of the king’s advisors, none of them answered. A quiet cough broke the silence, and everyone turned to see the messenger with his hand raised, under the intensity of the glares that the roman advisors gave him he cowered down but still kept his hand raised. Kartjan turned to him gave his advisors a dirty look and gestured for the messenger to speak.

“Well your majesty, the high priest Arngeir declared you rule illegitimate, he said that you broke the rules of Astero and betrayed the gods and the nation of Skjoldur and because of that Amgeir declared Bjorn the rightful king”.

There was a few murmurs and a bit of laughter from the romans. Bastardus waved his hand “well then, we have nothing to worry about”, Kartjan turned around and smacked Bastardus on the head. “On any other occasion I would agree, but seeing as my enemies believe me weak, they will use this as an excuse to strike”. Kartjan turned to Wulfgar his military advisor, how many men do with have to call on, Wulfgar took a second to think “enough, most of are men are in Meridia helping your son Gorm, but we should have enough to defend are land”. Kartjan nodded, “good” he said, “summon the generals”.

Lojha, Valaker Region, Skjoldur
Jarl Olav Haraldsson was close to dropping off. He could not bare these meetings, he watched as his son Harold Haraldsson was arguing with Olav’s generals. He was not sure what it was about, something about the Beowulf clan and allowing soldiers in. The jarl sighed, he was sure Harold would sort it out, he always did. As the debate carried on Olav became increasingly aware of the time, he was missing the real housewives of Heartfillia. After the debate had finally finished Harold approached the king and whispered in his ear “are you ready to make your decision farther?” Olav looked up and nodded, glancing at the speech that Harold had written for him yesterday. The old jarl stood up from his chair.
“ladies and gentlemen, I have listened to your arguments and have reached a decision. In the next 50 years Rome and Skjoldur will go to war, it is unavoidable”.

The jarl paused letting that information sink in “during that time, Rome will look to invade Skjoldur, and there are two obvious roots through the Beowulf clan or through us”.

The jarl paused again, letting this piece of information sink in.

“Now, who do you think will stand the better chance, us or the Beowulfs? We would be swept aside, abandoned for the Romans to pick off as they choose. Now, I as jarl of this proud clan, I will not allow that to happen. Therefore, I have organised an alliance between the Beowulfs, the Bloodaxe’s and the Red Flower clan. Seeing as are kings are busy killing each other we will use this confusion in Natufia to strike, from this we can create a new nation that will help defend out borders”. There were a few scoffs and mutters around the room, but no one dared question the jarl.

Unknown, Unknown, Unknown
Atlas Balthazar was watching TV when the phone rang, he had just come home from the bar and was a little drunk. He took a deep breath and picked up the phone, he listened for a few minutes and hung up the phone. He got up and grabbed another phone from his desk, dialling a number he waited a few seconds then said, “gather the Oheioarlegur, were going to Natufia”. He put down the phone and smiled, finally some action.

by **The Natufian Nation** » Sat Apr 24, 2021 9:28 am

PROLOGUE to the Second Act

Woeful times descend on the Natufian Nation. The efforts of diplomacy strain to hold together what will not be held. Five factions have emerged, all at odds one from another. The Aurochs feels the pull on its limbs, threatening to dismember it, whilst only one fights to keep the whole alive. Battle lines are drawn, foreign purse and steel pour into the lands in an attempt to force the parcelling of the nation and the idea of Commonwealth is dismissed by those seeking a different destiny. The sky darkens and the wind begins to howl, hearlding the coming storm. Already the thunder of machines of war are heard, threatening to bring lightning strikes of destruction and bloody torrents that will pour over the land. The aurochs looks skyward in despair, its large, watery eyes forming tears.

by **The Natufian Nation** » Sat Apr 24, 2021 9:29 am

Banner of the Emir of Harif

by **The Natufian Nation** » Thu Jul 29, 2021 3:20 pm

Amsha's plot is not just to kidnap Prince Nero in order to force Caesar to expose himself, but to destroy Nova Roma as well. This interim post is to establish what is going on in the background towards that part of her plan.

For a brief biography of Meister Seifert, see this factbook entry, https://www.nationstates.net/nation=the_natufian_nation/detail=factbook/id=1575229

Vinterfort strategic defense station (abandonded) - Northern frozen wastes of Rusina

It was a clear day and the cold but brilliant sun reflected harshly off the unbroken white snow that covered the flat plain from horizon to horizon. Only the brown exposed rock of a far-off mountain ridge gave any sense of feature to the desolate, frozen landscape. The wind was only slight but Yuri Gostwald expected it to pick up at nightfall and the already frigid temperature to drop to dangerous levels. Fortunately, his team could stay underground and with a little luck, be on their way back to the rendezvous point the next day. It would be a long 14 hour trip by dog sled to get to the pick-up point. Fortunately, at this latitude and at this time of year, they had 16 hours of daylight to move in. Covered in his old Covenantian army parka, Yuri lowered his binoculars, having confirmed for the umpteenth time there was nothing, nothing at all, moving on the horizon. Why his boss, Meister Seifert, sent them here was a bit of a mystery. He knew this was commissioned work; there was no way Seifert wanted what they were here to retrieve for himself. Whoever was paying him must be paying him well and given him all sorts of assurances.

He looked again at his immediate surroundings as he adjusted the old Myraxian assault rifle strapped over his shoulder. The small and remote station, unused for years, was mostly buried in snow drifts now. Part of the Valyrien Defense Network, it was missed when the Confederation task force bombed out all military installations in the ex-nations affected by the Rusinan Collapse. Smartly, the Valyrien Strategic Response Corp maintained a decentralized command structure and no one source contained the location of all launch sites.

Only the top 1/3 of the 6-meter-high fence remained visible above the snow, along with the contours of the roof of the main building, as well as the inoperable radio tower. The sled dogs were laying huddled together on a tarp close to the sleds. A tunnel through the snow descended at a 30 degree angle down to the door of the main building and the underground complex below the rest of the team should be navigating. Operation Volga was well underway. Yuri stood by, his walkie-talkie ready in hand.

Down below, four figures made their way through the dark concrete corridors, illuminating the frozen surfaces with head-mounted LED lights. The air was cold, still and stale. The stark and bare passageways were deadly quiet as the team passed by white painted walls with instructional signage painted in black and frozen pipes suspended at the ceiling. The team had been making their way through the dark crypt-like facility for over an hour, carrying sophisticated equipment and a collapsible wheeled trolley.

Finally arriving at a solid metal door, the two technicians in the group brought out their tools and began dismantling the palm-reader console from the adjoining wall, carefully connecting the wiring under the panel to a portable battery. The two technicians and a third member, bearing a Sergeant rank, were similarly dressed to Yuri but all had removed the white stallion emblem of Meister Seifert from their uniforms on the off-chance they were intercepted. They could not allow their work here to be traced back to the Meister.

The fourth figure was a tall, raven-haired woman with a weathered face and a patch over her left eye. She wore a dark-green Valyrien winter coat showing her commander rank on the lapel. Her head was adorned with an army beret emblazoned with the emblem of the Valyrien Strategic Response Corp. She had a fatigued look on her face and her uniform showed faded patches and mended tears betraying years of long use. Colonel Erna Ström looked on as the technicians did their work and resisted the impulse to light one of the slim cigars resting in her shirt pocket. She only had two left but if this deal was completed, she wouldn’t have to worry about scrounging around for survival any longer in the remnants of her homeland.

When the technicians were finished, the palm-reader glowing eerily in the still darkness, Colonel Ström stepped forward, removed a worn weather glove from her right hand and placed her palm and fingers flat against the cold glass. After a long moment, and to the relief of the party, the sharp clicking sound of locking pins disengaging echoed loudly through the corridor and the metal door silently drifted open.

The team stepped through and the beams from their LED lights were swallowed up in a massive circular chamber 20 meters across and extending up and down from their position an immeasurable distance. Ice crystals dislodged from the recent disturbance floated in the air all around them. The frozen air was as still as death and the sounds of their footsteps reverberated in the chamber with a surreal, dark echo. They were standing on a metal gangplank circling a derelict and inoperable intercontinental missile, standing still like a corpse in a cold, forgotten crypt. A set of metal mesh stairs led up to the nosecone.

Colonel Ström took out her hand-held flashlight and examined the massive projectile that was once under her supervision. “Just like I said”, she stated somewhat gleefully and tinged with pride, her breath condensing in the freezing air, “A Valyrien Steichforze intercontinental missile. Looks to be intact.” She then directed her beam of light up to the nose cone. “This one had a full megaton warhead mounted. Plutonium core and an exploding-bridgewire detonator.” She had a proud look on her face in the presence of such destructive power. She did not know what exactly the plans were for its use but she had an idea, or more of a hope. Originally, this particular launch site had pre-set target coordinates set on Nova Roma. She hoped the warhead might just finally make it to its intended destination.

The tall Valarisk commander continued, addressing the sergeant, “The hatch has been soldered shut so you’ll have to cut through the outer casing first. And as agreed, when I’m out of this hell hole and given safety at Seifert’s Castle, I’ll give you the arming code.”

The technicians climbed up to the nose cone, lit their acetylene torches and began cutting through the outer hatch. Meanwhile, the sergeant got on his walkie-talkie. “Sir, we’re in the nursery. Taking the baby from the crib now….”

A typical Valyrien Steichforze ICBM

For generations, the Roman Empire has been ruled by the firm resolve and iron hand of the Caesars, some great, some not-so-great. The only body offering any kind of counterbalance to the autocratic imperial power is the Roman Senate. The old, venerable institution is still necessary to maintain the day-to-day functioning of the Empire and a place for the aristocracy to feel they have any kind of relevancy, however tepid it may truly be depending on Caesar’s disposition. While outright political dissention is mercilessly persecuted, one group, calling itself the Roman Senatorial Society, or RSS, has been operating just within the bounds of tolerance. Its mission statement is “to promote Senatorial privileges and freedom”. On its surface, this means harmless interests in tax breaks and paid junkets. However, more senior officers in the RSS are quietly trying to raise consciousness to advance more serious reforms to make the Senate more influential in Roman affairs, curtailing the power of Caesar without constituting outright treason. The insiders who share this agenda informally call themselves, “The Liberators”. The RSS has avoided being shut down due to the fact it has the support of some rather influential Senators. It’s focus on civic duty, Roman patriotism and tradition, and its non-militant stance has given it a reputation as a harmless social club for aristocratic Senators to self-aggrandize and blow off steam. But what is not known is that the RSS is ultimately managed as a front organization by forces maneuvering it into position to be a sacrificed pawn in a much larger, and deadlier, game….

Port city of Ostia, Roman Empire, evening

The city was bustling with activity and a warm, salty breeze wafted from the docks and down the streets into the commercial districts near the harbor. As the workday ended and the happy denizens of the prosperous port city began making their way to the pubs, restaurants, and meeting halls, one man in particular seemed quite ill at ease. Valentinus Claudius Paullus exited his chauffeured car and stood outside the Club Šťastný, a brothel and strip club known to be owned by a local crime syndicate with ties to the Arcovian mafia. Although no one in Ostia would think twice at seeing a high-ranking city official at such a venue, this was not the place a man of Paullus’ more prudent disposition cared to be. But it was where his cousin insisted on meeting him.

Paullus took a breath and stepped through the doors past the burly bouncers, Arcovian by the looks of them, and took in the main room. A long polished oak wood bar stretched down one entire wall, bottles arranged on shelves along the mirrored backing. Two busy bartenders mixed drinks and placed them on trays for topless server girls to deliver to patrons of the club. Multiple tables surrounded a dance platform in the center equipped with three poles where tall, slender, pale-skinned Arcovian women were performing their dance routines, their nearly nude bodies gyrating sensuously and with multiple sentarii notes strapped to their g-stings. Roman and Arcovian men shared drinks and crude jokes with each other. Some were respectable members of the Ostian business community Paullus recognized, some were more dodgy looking. Nobody took notice of him, much to Paullus’ relief.

Paullus made his way to the back and down a narrow wood-paneled corridor, passing by an unamused looking and barely clothed server carrying a tray of drinks. Half-way down the hallway was a beaded curtain entrance to a private room. He brushed the long strands of gaudy baubles aside and stepped inside to find a semicircular table surrounded by a red-vinyl-upholstered booth. His cousin was in the middle of receiving a lap dance by a giggling dyed-blond dancer. There was a shot glass of Arcovian vodka on the table next to two lines of Arcovian marching powder, one line already spent.

“By great Juno, holy mother of us all, Decius!” Paullus scolded.

Decius nonchalantly dismissed the dancer, watching her back-end lustfully as she departed, and then beckoned Paullus to sit. “Good to see you, cousin! Come on, I’m just having a little fun!”

“Fun, I don’t deny you, of course. But not when we are meeting on…business.” Paullus replied, looking around suspiciously. “Why here? Don’t you usually hang out at Vanini’s club in the capital?”

“Yeah, well, Vanini and I aren’t getting along so well at present.”

Paullus sighed, “How much do you owe him?”

“It’s cool, don’t worry about it. I’m going to pay him back soon. Actually, just as soon as the business we are here to discuss is done. Don’t worry, Vanini will get what’s due to him” Decius smiled mischievously.

Paullus, always more literal-minded, did not pick up on the inuendo and looked at his cousin coolly. “OK, I’m here. What is this business, then?”

Decius leaned forward, “You said you’re getting tired of the Liberators not making any real progress, right? Well, my partners, who give you a lot of intel and other support, mind you, want to help step things up a notch”.

Paullus tried to look away dismissively, but he knew that his cousin knew he was interested. He was indeed feeling restless and ready to take a few more risks to get the Liberators talking about putting forward proposals in the Senate that had real teeth. “We’re not talking anything that could be construed as treason, right? I’m not going to cross that line, not unless more of the Senate is with us.”

Decius blew a big, half-drunk raspberry and waved his arms in an exaggerated gesture. “Oh, no, No! Of course not!” he stated unconvincingly. “They just want to give you what you need to…make some news. It's...promotional material. You know, really get people talking” and a wicked smile crossed his face, “yes, to get people talking indeed! Think of it as the ultimate propaganda piece.”

Paullus was nervous but intrigued. It was true the Roman Senatorial Society would be no more than a drinking club without his cousin’s help to make the clandestine contacts he could not risk making personally and to apply pressure on the small provincial courts to build a body of favorable case law. And it was true that aside from some ill-attended speeches, not much was actually happening to forward the ultimate aim of the Liberators to see the Senate take greater control of the government. The sympathetic senators gave him political cover but refused to get more involved than that. “What do you need from me, then?”

“Hey, man, you’re the quaestor of Ostia! A big shot!” Decius said, opening his arms wide, “You control the ports, right?”

“At the pleasure of the Proconsul of Ostia, yes. So?”

Decius lowered his voice and suddenly sounded much more sober, “Ok, cousin, listen carefully….next week there is a ship, the Volga, embarking from the port of Tyrell in Cambrius, that is going to make port here in Ostia. Part of its cargo will be a number of containers from the Gerst Trading Company. You just make sure those containers are NOT inspected and that they are stored in warehouse 17. My people will remove them before anyone thinks twice about them.”

“Great Jupiter”, Paullus sighed, “What’s in them?”

“Only what will help you. Best you don’t know right now.”

Paullus stirred uncomfortably, momentarily distracted by the low, red lights, the sultry, dirty, environment of the club, the stench of spilled booze and paid sex everywhere. He was not comfortable with the setting nor the conversation. Clearly this was some sort of contraband they were talking about. It would be a greater risk he had yet taken. Yet he knew his cousin had always come through before, as deplorable as Paullus found him as a person.

Paullus stared at his cousin, feeling control slipping away from him and raised his noble, Roman nose, stating. “I must know what this cargo is before I agree to pass it. And who is behind it.”

Decius gave a dangerous look, “Listen, cousin, you’re family and I’m going to protect you so I’m telling you this out of love. Don’t you ever ask that again. Ever. And don’t let me down. My associates are not kind-hearted people. But believe me, this will help the cause.”

Paullus felt the gravity of the tone in his cousin's voice and sat speechless and wide-eyed. After a long moment staring at Decius, he stood up to leave, a defeated look on his face, but had to state, “I do not endorse violence, Decius. The aims of the RSS must be achieved through politics. I will not have the guilt of a , a , a civil war, on my head. So just assure me you are not bringing in weapons to start a revolution.”

Decius gave his cousin a curt smile, “That I can assure you, cousin. There will be no revolution…no civil war.”

Paullus nodded in an unnerved way and left the room.

Decius sat quietly for a minute and reminded himself he needed to let Guardian know she can move forward with the plan. He then thought about the extraordinary debt he owed Vanini and the price on his head…and how it would soon be ‘erased’. Decius couldn’t help but give an elated giggle. He stooped over the table, snorted up the remaining line of coke, chased it down with the vodka, and stepped into the hallway. Now where did that Arcovian dancer with the fine ass get off to?

Ostia has historically been an important port city of the Roman Empire

And still is today

The Club Šťastný with an Arcovian employee ready to perform

Decius is a very bad man

by **Aexorouwyth** » Fri Aug 06, 2021 3:45 pm

Ancedon, Aexorouwyth, 4:35
An unknown person stands on the balcony of the Ancedon Palace, an enormous palace built to withstand invasions from barbarians, although it is not much use now against modern armies. The palace stands as a symbolic building for the nation, a contrast to the modern city. It overlooks the grand city of Ancedon, the capital of Aexorouwyth. Dawn had just begun to reach its long tentacles into the dark sky. Skyscrapers dominated much of the city, great behemoths made of steel, glass and concrete reaching for the sky. The person could also slightly make out the silhouette of the factories, the smoke pluming out of the smokestack makes it visible from almost anywhere in Ancedon. The person smiles, clearly proud of the progress his empire has made. Within 6 years, a nation that was barely known has become a great power in Western Archon. However, he was not here for sightseeing, he was waiting for someone.

Half an hour passes and someone finally steps into the room. His visage was haunting, his gaunt face alone was able to keep most people silent. Although rather short, he was still a fearsome general.
"You're late" says the enigmatic person, still overlooking the city.
"Apologies, Retya" hissed General Phyo Kaung. "However, we have great news to announce."
Normally, Retya would've had him executed for addressing him by his name, but due to Phyo Kaung being one of the best generals the nation has ever seen, he could not afford to kill him.
"Really?" replies Retya. "Tell me about it."
"We have managed to strike a deal with the Emirate of Harif, in return for a great amount of resources, we will aid them in the war." recited Phyo Kaung.
"Good," said Retya, bluntly. "I have one more thing I need you to do, General."
"What is it, My Lord?"
"Prepare the helicopters, we have to transport some soldiers over to Fort [REDACTED], there have been attacks there by an unknown power."
The General spun on his heels and began walking out of the room. As soon as his foot landed outside the room, Retya spoke up again.
“Wait.”
The General stopped and turned around.
“Be careful down there, Ancedon was just struck by a plague and the whole city is in lockdown. Do whatever is needed to keep yourself safe.”
The General nodded and continued on his journey out of the palace.

Down in the streets of Ancedon, chaos runs free. Aexorouwyth is currently in the middle of a plague. The plague is very similar to a flu, but the people of Ancedon have no immunity against it. A mother and her children lie huddled in an alleyway, periodically giving a lung-wrenching burst of coughs. The windows of smaller shops are smashed, the jagged pieces of glass lie inside the dark, abandoned shops. Armed police and doctors roam the streets, trying desperately to help the people, but looters and other criminals made this attempt difficult. The police were authorised to shoot looters on sight, as an attempt to discourage looting. The city is under lockdown, with giant tracked beasts armed with machine guns guarding every road out of Ancedon. Another general proposed the idea of turning this disease into a weapon, many others discouraged this idea, fearing the consequences if it failed, but that idea appealed to Phyo Kaung and Retya, and so, the attempt to make the first biological weapon of Aexorouwyth has begun.

Fort [REDACTED], 6:34 am
"What took you so long, Sir?" yelled a dishevelled sergeant over the rotating blades of helicopters.
"We had to get some guys to guard the city of Ancedon, there is a disease happening there and there are looters everywhere." replied a higher ranked soldier, as he stepped off the helicopter.
The fort was wrecked, fires licked the grey slabs on concrete bunkers, bodies lay in piles, ready to be incinerated. The reinforcements rushed out of the helicopter and quickly helped clean up and repair the fort. Soldiers that have neglected sleep for days in fear of another attack gratefully drank warm soup that the helicopters brought in.
"Do you know who attacked the fort?" shouted the High Rank.
"Hell if we know, but they had crude tanks with machine guns, the machine guns looked a bit like our ones. They even had fricking rocket launchers'' replied the sergeant.
"Did you catch a glimpse of any symbols? Uniform? What language do they speak?" rattled off the High Rank.
"I don't know, they attacked us so fast we didn't even know what was happening, they must've been waiting for days, studying us, because they knew where the keys to the bunkers were. A great number of us died in the first fight, but we eventually emerged victorious."
However, the high ranked person wasn't listening. He had toddled off to one of the piles and grabbed an arm. He pulled the rest of the body out and studied it. Whatever uniform the body wore, it was reduced to rags, there wasn't any space on the body without bullet holes. Blood seeped out of the abyss and trickled down the torso of the dark skinned corpse. The dead, milky eyes stared back at the High Rank. On the other hand, the body held a pistol, it looked ancient, before the Great Empire shattered into the states that they are now.
"Looks like one of those hooligans from up north" said the High Rank.
"But I thought we are at peace for now, aren’t we?" replied the sergeant.
"Pfft, you think those primitive monkeys would respect the treaty?" hissed the High Rank. "I want you bucket heads to keep guarding this fort, we will retaliate when we get enough soldiers.
"Yes Sir" shouted the sergeant, his muddy hand snapping to his grazed forehead into a salute.
"You're a good soldier, sergeant, and one day, you can return to your family" said the High Rank, in a slightly softer voice. He began walking back to the helicopter, stepping over bullet casings, mud, shrapnel and human blood and guts. The helicopter's blades began rotating, accelerating in speed before hovering over the fort and flying east. The sergeant turned away to look over the aftermath of the fort. The reinforcements were carrying hulking gas cans and flamethrowers. Flame licked the masses, charring the bodies of soldiers and eventually reducing them into dust and ashes. The sergeant realised this moment would stick with him for the rest of his life, and his persona shattered, tears rolled down his eyes, the shock finally catching up to him and he realised his friends and comrades were gone, forever.

by **Romae in Perpetuum** » Sun Aug 15, 2021 11:40 am

Benjamin al-Shuqba: The Careful Chief

Imperial Villa, Colrida Chiefdom, Commonwealth of Natufia

V Eid. Martius, 2130 AUNC

As the helicopter descended further, Ben couldn’t help but push his darkening thoughts to one side as the sheer magnitude of the complex became apparent. The landing platform itself was obviously big enough to accommodate at least three of his own humble craft, yet even that was a mere pinprick contrasted to the titanic marble edifice it was attached to. Compared to just the central building of the complex Benjamin al-Shuqba, duly elected High Chief of the Commonwealth, felt as small and insignificant as the lowliest horsefly buzzing around the rear of a prize stallion, awaiting the callous flick of the tail that would end its trivial life.

The rational part of his mind tried to tell him that this was the intention. Just another millennium old technique to impress native peoples with the wonders of the Imperium. Somehow, though, this thought didn’t make him feel any better and, not for the first time, he wondered what a rancher was doing going to parley with one of the most powerful men in the world, a descendant of gods! There was still a chance this was all just one big mistake…

It was only the jarring landing of the chopper and the bustle of his personal staff that snapped him out of his languor. Regardless of his birth he was still High Chief! It was him that had been summoned by name and him who enjoyed the support of his peers! He made a silent vow to the Great Aurochs that he would never fail to conduct himself in any other way; Nero would only ever respect strength and that’s what he had to show, lest the young eagle swallow him up like a frightened hare.

Emerging onto the platform, Ben was approached by a young man whose brilliant white tunic seemed to glow even in the dying light. He was flanked by two bulky men in dark armour and blood-red capes. The man’s short sleeves were ringed with a silver filigree that marked him as a freedman rather than a slave although the lack of any other ornamentation made Ben suspect that this one ranked fairly low in the Imperial hierarchy.

“High Chief.” Said the freedman bowing appropriately low. “His Imperial Highness sends his sincerest felicitations and, in his munificence, has commanded me to see you to an appropriate chamber until he is prepared to receive you.”

“Oh.” Ben said, a little taken aback. He assumed he would have been taken straight to the prince, though in retrospect this was an overambitious expectation on his part. Nero was, after all, a famously busy man. “Of course, me and my staff will be happy to wait for as long as his Imperial Highness sees fit.” He made a monition to step forward but was checked by the two armoured men who moved with an unsettling synchronicity.

“Apologies, Excellency. I am afraid you and your party will, regrettably, have to be searched before the Guard will allow you into the palace.” Intoned the, still concave, freedman.

Ben felt his staff look to him from behind, but he’d been warned about this procedure from Titianus and had ensured that none of his people carried so much as a letter opener before disembarking. Smiling up at the blank faced guards he gave a consenting nod and raised his arms to the side.

The ferocity and fanaticism of the Skjoldurian Guard was famous even in New Jericho, yet Ben was strangely surprised by the precise, nearly gentle, nature of the pat down. The grim-faced guardsmen approached their tasks with a deftness that belayed their enormous size and soon enough Ben, and his team were being escorted into the prince’s residence.

If the palace’s imposing exterior had given the High Chief any expectations as to its interior, Ben quickly found them utterly ruined. The corridors he was led down were wide and tall enough to give off an echoey, monumental impression; yet constrained enough for Ben to be able to make out near every detail of the scrupulous frescos that covered every inch of wall space. Even his untrained eye could tell that these were of the highest quality, and it took a surprising amount of effort for him to focus on the Freedmen guiding them through the labyrinthine passages.

Ben, still a rancher at heart, had never been the most comfortable with crowds and felt a small lump of panic in his throat at the deluge of human traffic that was, mercifully, being parted by the imposing Skjoldurian duo. As far as he could tell it was mostly slaves and freedmen streaming alongside them, with a few of the latter exchanging quick greetings with their guide, but Ben could make out a few other ‘bubbles’ of other important personages here and there making their way through. A few even recognised him offering the odd nod or half smile as they strode by. Remembering his vow, the High Chief did his best to respond to these warmly despite the unfamiliar environment.

The crowds soon began to thin out as the High Chief’s entourage was led away from the main thoroughfares and towards what looked like a succession of day suites; a good few of which appeared to be already occupied. It seemed that Ben was far from the only guest waiting to attend the Prince Nero today. He was more than a little relieved when their guide-freedman finally stopped outside one of the larger suites ushering them through with another deep bow.

“His Imperial Highness will send for you when he is prepared to see you.” The man announced, his tone just the right mixture of regret and authority. “Until then, please feel free to avail yourself of the facilities, though we request that you try not to leave this room in the interim. The residence is, after all, much larger and more complicated than you would be used to and his Imperial Highness would be most…vexed if you were to get lost.

Ben raised an eyebrow at that last comment, it was not a freedman’s place to make requests of the High Chief nor to make presumptions about what he was used to, Imperial or no. He briefly wondered if this was some kind of test but dismissed the notion as soon as it arose. The ex-slave was likely just trying to pre-empt the inevitable punishment that would result from losing his charge; besides, he ruminated, it was probably true… he didn’t really fancy his chances of even making it back to the landing pad without a guide.

“Noted.” Ben said with a reassuring smile. “Your assistance has been greatly appreciated.”

The freedman bowed again, though curiously didn’t take the opportunity to leave. Ben waited a few seconds to see if the man had anything to add before he suddenly remembered where he was.

“Oh, my apologies.” He mumbled, reaching into his pocket, and producing a few Ukis that the freedman accepted gracefully. “Hail Caesar.”

As the guide left, Ben could finally take in the full extent of the room they’d been assigned. It was large enough to comfortably accommodate at least double their number; extravagantly furnished with a series of cushioned benches and archetypal Roman sofas, on which a few of his staff had begun to tentatively sit.

A sizable flatscreen television dominated the far wall playing a muted NNS broadcast, Ra'aya Ahmadi praising the arrival of troops in Dikikoyun judging by the imagery. The screen was flanked by two identical alcoves, framed with beautiful flat Roman brickwork, each containing a large, pedestaled bust. The right was obviously Gemellus Caesar, there was a similar sculpture in his own office, and Ben would’ve mistaken the left for a duplicate if it weren’t for its thinner face and marginally smaller nose- this must be Octavius Nero. Other alcoves were also dotted around the room, many were filled with orderly bookshelves their spines imprinted with gold Latinate filigree or other, lesser, busts and statues.

Ben was certain there was some finer symbolism at play in the display of the statuettes, but it was beyond him. Besides, he was much more preoccupied with the continuous frieze etched around the walls that even reached up to the ceiling. It depicted an ancient battle in the desert and Ben was awestruck as the sheer detail in the face of even the lowliest foot soldier and the smallest sand dune. The frieze culminated in the end of a fierce duel between two towering figures; the victorious combatant was encased in pure white armour, swathed with a deep purple sash, and his head was ringed with shining gold. Benjamin performed a small genuflection at the depiction of the Divine Augustus, a god revered in his own familial shrine. As he did so, however, Ben couldn’t help but see the likeness between the fresco and Nero’s bust, a coincidence he was sure…

The next half hour passed surprising quickly. Ben wasn’t quite brave enough to attempt one of the couches, preferring to remain on his feet but, despite his best efforts to resist, he began slowly pacing up and down the room. The High Chief liked to think of himself as a self-assured man but nonetheless he could feel fresh knots of anxiety forming in his stomach at the idea of actually meeting the famous Prince. It wasn’t just his political career on the line, but the fate of the entire Commonwealth- was it any wonder that this job had been the death of his uncle? In the last week alone Ben felt like he’d aged years… and the role wasn’t likely to get any less demanding.

Ben was trying to distract himself with a nearby copy of Gaius Caesar’s Commentarii de Bello Esgare when the door was unexpectedly swung open by a lean man in military garb. Ben immediately saw that the man was sporting a holstered sidearm on his belt, but his uniform wasn’t that of the Praetorian Guard- or any Roman unit Ben recognised- and his clean-shaven face combined with his lack of bulk immediately disqualified him as a Skjoldurian Guardsman. Considering the extensive security and total ban on all unauthorised weapons, this was either an intruder or a very important person’s guard.

Any fears of assassination were shortly put to rest as the armed figure, having given the room a once over, stepped aside revealing a young man, no more than eighteen or nineteen, dismissing another freedman.

“Yes, yes I get the picture. Ready when he’s ready, you can go now.”

The youth was dressed peculiarly to say the least, clad in an expertly tailored pinstripe suit of brilliant green complemented by an electric blue tie which was adorned with an unfamiliar crest. He was handsome, there was no denying that, with deep chocolate eyes, carefully styled dark hair and a strong jaw. Though, Ben couldn’t help but notice the forest green lipstick and azure eyeshadow in complete defiance of both Roman and Natufian custom.

Nodding to, what was now obviously, his bodyguard, the young man sauntered into the room and took a full minute to assess the décor, tutting as he did. Ben wondered if he should offer some greeting but before he could, the oddly dressed fellow let out a loud sigh and all but threw himself down on an adjacent couch. He lay there in silence for a moment, examining a set of manicured viridescent nails before looking right at Ben, as if he’d just spotted him.

“Oh!” If Ben didn’t know better, he would’ve said the youth sounded amused. “You’re that new High Chief, aren’t you?”

His Latin was flawless, grammatically speaking, but the accent was all over the place. Unusually nasal, with overexaggerated vowels and totally lacking the natural rhythm native speakers pulled off so effortlessly. Nevertheless, it sounded oddly familiar, as was the attire now he came to think of it. Of course! Ben felt like smacking his forehead. This man was so Heartfilian it was a wonder he wasn’t carrying a copy of Gossip Weekly! Pureblood as well, if his mannerisms were anything to go by, those were rarely seen outside of their homeland- which was probably why it took Ben so long to make the connection.

Best smile in place, the High Chief nodded to the young man. “Benjamin al-Shuqba, yes. Pleased to meet you, Mr…?”

The Heartfillian laughed, a good-natured chuckle rather than the infamous mocking jibes of Elysium. “I’m almost offended! Don’t you see the resemblance?” He waved towards the television and Ben looked around confused, was he some actor’s relative? Why would he know…then it hit him. The youth didn’t mean the screen…he meant the busts either side of it. Ben arched his eyebrows in realisation as he noted a clear resemblance in the jawline and eyes, this was one of Caesar’s Royal Bastards.

"Ah, I thought you must be from the Heartfilian court, but, yes, it makes sense now. Forgive me, your name escapes me, but it is an honour to meet another son of his Imperial Majesty."

The young man lazily extended a hand towards the High Chief but conspicuously made no effort to get up from the couch. “Geoffery Plantagenet, Duke of Anjou.”

Ben approached the duke and gave him a rather firm and formal handshake. "Anjou? Yes, I believe we import a fair amount of luxury food goods from your Dukedom. The mustards and truffles of Anjou are quite legendary. I'm afraid I have never visited, though. So, has your brother summoned you as well?"

Geoffery raised a sea-blue eyebrow. "No, I'm here entirely uninvited. A few things to pass on to brother dearest, hush hush and all that. Though.” He picked a grape from a low side table. “The food isn’t half bad either.”

Ben was interested in a conversation with one of Caesar’s sons, just for practice if nothing else, but he’d also not heard much news from Elysium lately and here was a prime source. It would do no good to stand there like a supplicant, though; repressing a groan he perched on the end of a nearby couch, not trusting his ability to lie down without embarrassing himself. "So, what is the mood in Heartfilia these days? I do hope to build on the friendship my uncle established with Queen Marie and the Heartfilian people."

"Ah yes, of course. My commiserations by the way.” Geoffery said ruefully. “Nathaniel was a good man."

Ben felt genuinely heart-warmed by the comment. He’d had official condolences sent from governments the world over, but something in the young Duke’s tone touched him. "Ah, thank you, yes, he did so much for the Natufian people and was widely loved.... we all miss him, of course." Ben looked up towards the corner of the room, though he was in fact seeing the vast nation beyond deep in his mind’s eye. "His absence is certainly felt across the nation." He turned his attention back to the duke. "He taught me a lot that I now hope to put to good use. Did you ever get a chance to meet him?"

Geoffrey’s eyes glassed over a little and Ben could feel the young man getting lost in his memories. “Once. Me and my siblings- my full siblings mind, not any of my half ones- spent about a fortnight at your family ranch years ago. I don't remember all that much, years ago as I said, but he was an... affable host."

The High Chief nodded, returning the smile, the relationship between Caesar and the Queen of Heartfilia was rumoured to be…unstable at the best of times. Ben couldn’t imagine a younger Geoffery lacking for anything, but it wouldn’t have been the best environment to grow up in. Despite his lineage, wealth, and the power that all gave him; the Duke of Anjou wasn’t much more than a boy and Ben looked at him with a newfound feeling of connection. “Ah, yes, I do remember him talking about that now. He had a real affection for you and your siblings. Probably took you out on horseback rides and made sure you got to experience some things you might not get exposed to back home... he was a good man. Well, sorry we didn't meet on that visit, I think I was spending time away that summer, but if there is anything I can do for you..."

Glassy look slowly dissipating, Geoffery offered up a half-smile. “I suspect that you may need my help more than I yours in the coming months, High Chief. But I appreciate the sentiment." Producing a wafer-thin phone from his breast pocket, the duke made an unpleasant face. “Great, I’d learn to get comfortable if I were you, I doubt we’ll be summoned ‘till dinner.”

"Wise words, and truer that I may like to admit" Ben said, returning the smile and checking his watch. "You are probably correct. If I can just get my body used to these odd couches..."

“Practice makes perfect, as mother is ever so fond of saying.” Geoffery tilted his head to one side. “Or is it practice and genetic engineering? Regardless, practice was at least mentioned…I think.” The duke sighed, eyes once again darting around the room. “Is that a chess board I see?” He said, perking up demonstrably. “I couldn’t interest you in a quick game, could I?”

---

When their summons eventually came around two hours later, Ben felt no small measure of relief. He was by no means considered a novice at chess; he and his uncle had willed away the occasional balmy autumnal evening on the ranch playing with an old wooden set, hand whittled by Ben’s grandfather, but Geoffrey Plantagenet was another animal entirely. Every time Ben believed the youth cornered, he quickly found himself on the other end of a grander trap- his every avenue of escape efficiently and ruthlessly shut down by the Heartfilian. Ben vaguely remembered his uncle describing the Plantagenet children as a ‘bright bunch’ but Geoffrey was still a teen for the Auroch’s sake!

“I wouldn’t feel too bad, High Chief.” Geoff said quietly as they were escorted through a less busy section of the residence. “I took the Elysium Cup when I was twelve and was competing in the Imperial Forum from fourteen.”

Ben smiled ruefully. “You didn’t manage to win that one then?”

“No.” Geoff heaved. “Trajan knocked me out in the preliminaries.”

Ah yes, Octavius Trajan, Caesar’s second son who had just married the Noctish Empress and had been publicly credited with the reclamation of the Asgarthi Heartlands. “I take it the Emperor-Consort took the trophy that year?”

“Oh no.” The young duke all but whispered. “Nero’s won the last fifteen years straight, something of a prodigy- though he never could take losing well.”

Ben set his jaw. Was that a warning? Or just an absent-minded observation? A quick sideways glance confirmed nothing, Geoff’s face held the same half bored expression he always seemed to wear. Whatever it was would have to wait until later, the sound of multiple conversations and the clinking of porcelain was growing progressively louder. Geoff had mentioned dinner before, and it was common knowledge that Romans preferred to discuss business and other important matters over a meal.

Soon enough the mixed party reached a truly enormous dining hall and, even with all he had seen today, Ben could hardly believe the true scale of ‘dinner’. The chamber was ringed with painted marble columns, wreathed with flowered garlands that reached from pillar to pillar, crisscrossing over each other like a spider’s web and forming the most extraordinary patterns. The walls and floor were plastered with more of the ever-present mosaics, but these ones showed various godly feasts strewn with pipe playing fawns and mostly nude nymphs.

Granted, it was hard to pay attention to the décor when one considered the sheer amount of people in the hall. A small army of attendants were leading groups of people to sets of low roman dining-sofas arranged in loose semi-circles around elliptical tables. Ben was half surprised by the amount of Natufians that were in attendance, many of whom he recognised as businessmen of some note, local chiefs and their retinues, there were even some close kin of major chiefs from the west and south who hadn’t yet accepted Ben’s accension to the High Chiefdom. As Ben was navigated through the winding path between the sofa-groupings he took special care to greet as many individuals as he could, offering arm clasps and returning nods to any who met his friendly gaze.

The groupings were unexpectedly mixed, it wasn’t hard to tell that many of the Romans in attendance were sat with Natufians, but Ben immediately clocked that the pairings were anything but random. Out of the corner of his eye he recognised a deputation of Senators from the industrial province of Belgica being seated by representatives of the Demir mining consortium, on the other side of the room he saw winemakers from Aghaz being introduced to distributors from Amphillai. In a single dinner Nero was doing more to further economic ties with the outer Natufian regions than Ben’s own office had in the last six months.

And here you are right in the centre of it all. He thought, grasping the arm of a minor chiefling. The implication was clear: you do business with Rome; you acknowledge her candidate.

Eventually, Ben and Geoff’s party made their way through the maze of tables and were shown to a raised dais at the very back of the room. Four armoured Skjoldurians flanked the platform, lit by a set of ornate braziers that illuminated a slightly larger collection of couches strategically positioned to emphasise a much grander sofa in the middle where the Prince Nero lounged contently.

Ben felt an overpowering need to gulp as he neared the imperial personage, the prince was dressed remarkably plainly. Only the rings on his olive-tanned fingers and the silver wreath placed upon a shock of black hair gave any indication of his importance, garbed as he was in a plain but immaculate white tunic and an accompanying set of dark breaches. That and the fact the entire room looked to have been tortuously positioned so not a single person had his back to Caesar’s eldest son…

It was their escort who first approached the dais and, falling to one knee, announced “The High Chief of the Natufian Commonwealth and His Grace, the Duke of Anjou."

Geoffery bowed at the mention of his name and Ben suddenly went stiff. He had no idea of the proper protocol, he was the Head of State of an independent nation but one that was subordinate to the Imperium. If it had been Caesar in person there would be no question, but Titianus had never really been able to explain how much authority his sons held in their own right, only calling it a ‘grey area’. Knowing that indecisiveness was the worst possible quality to show Nero, Ben settled on the Natufian greeting of high honour: touching his forehead, and extending his arm out quickly followed by a bow; notably less deep than the duke’s.

As he rose Ben could feel the looks from behind as well as from Nero’s personal dining companions and dreaded to feel a creeping flush rising from his chest. The prince himself didn’t seem to notice, however, busy as he was looking his young brother up and down, Geoffery maintaining steady eye contact throughout.

“You look like a two sestertii whore.” Nero eventually declared to his sibling; his lips curled in distain. Ben’s eyes went wide with shock, he hadn’t heard of bad blood between the two, but that didn’t mean much and Geoffery looked remarkably calm...

The young man just shrugged. “I’d better keep away from Drusus then.”

Whatever conversation was being held in earshot of the high table was stifled as a ripple of silence abruptly choked off the chatter across the room. Ben felt perspiration run down his back and he braced himself for Nero’s inevitable rage.

Just as the tension became nigh on unbearable Nero unexpectedly burst into an explosion of laughter. The prince jumped to his feet with surprising litheness and held Geoff’s head in his hands.

“Oh, it’s good to see you again, brother. It’s been far too long!”

The entire hall breathed an audible sigh of thanks as Nero grinned broadly.

“Bring out the wine!” He called, voice echoing through the great room. The partygoers let out a cheer as innumerable servants and slaves began appearing with enormous jugs of fine wine the buzz of discussion soon returning even louder than before.

An arm around his brother’s shoulder, Nero returned Ben’s gesture of respect and looked him straight in the eye.

“High Chief. It’s good to meet you at long last!”

Ben was momentarily stunned at the informality and…joviality of the prince. He wondered if this was a que that Nero preferred a more casual style of meeting and, this being the case, if he should respond in kind. He almost did, but there was a hardness in the Roman’s unflinching gaze that made him wary.

“Likewise, Imperial Highness.” He said with a small smile while being sure to maintain a respectful tone. “I was very pleased to receive your invitation. My uncle always told me to value any opportunity to spend time with His Imperial Majesty or the imperial family."

“And I am likewise pleased you decided to join me in my humble little abode. Please, sit, sit!”

Nero snapped his fingers and the two men on the adjacent couches to his own quickly vacated them as the prince resumed his recline. Bowing his head Ben moved as carefully as he could onto the oddly contoured couch, snatching the odd glance at Geoffery to make sure he was positioned appropriately.

“So, High Chief.” Drawled the Duke of Anjou flagging down a cup of wine. “What do you think of my brother’s ‘humble abode’?”

“I think it’s a marvel!” Ben replied, adopting a friendly air. He was careful though to keep a watchful eye on Nero’s fair features. “Befitting an urbane and sophisticated resident such as his Highness. It seems no amenity has been forgotten! I think I even spotted a gladiator arena. It is a high honour he would choose to build such a magnificent structure here.” Ben graciously accepted a cup of watered wine from a passing server. “Of course, I am just a humble rancher and take joy in the wide-open spaces of the family ranch."

Nero didn’t seem to register the complements and merely stroked his clean-shaven chin. “Alas, me and my little brother are more accustomed to the city life. Though I do wish the climate was a tad more temperate. I may have to have the whole place moved…or mayhap rebuilt. Is the weather around New Jericho much different?”

Ben was shocked by the extravagance of the statement. The manpower costs alone would be ruinous to even the wealthiest of the Natufian Chiefs. Ben’s mind raced, was this an attempt to remind him of the prince’s fantastical resources? Or a genuine question?

It could also be a threat. He thought to himself suddenly. Subtle notice of Nero’s ability to force himself right into the heart of Natufian politics on a moment’s notice. Though, looking around at the assembled guests, it appeared that the prince could do that just as well from here as the capital.

“Quite similar, your highness. Almost at the same latitude although I think New Jericho is drier with less rainfall and warmer summers. This area is one of the few places you can find natural forest. Does his highness like to hunt?” Ben asked, feeling a need to move the conversation on.

The prince just waved dismissively. "More Trajan's thing than mine, I fear. Though it's an interesting endeavour.” He motioned towards his brother with his cup. “It's a shame that Geoff here inherited his mother's weak disposition, he's oddly sickened by the sight of blood. Is that not so, brother?"

Geoff shrugged, apparently unperturbed by the casual insult. “We prefer more civilised activities in Heartfilia. Blood sports are so...gauche."

Nero laughed again and winked conspiratorially to Ben. “You know if anyone else here had said that I'd have taken their tongue!"

Ben returned the laugh alongside the rest of their group. The prince indeed possessed his purported wicked humour and, though Ben did detect a note of truth in the statement, he felt himself relax a little. Doing his best to be respectful to the obstructing prince, Ben looked past to young Geoffrey. “So, Your Grace, I infer you will not be seen at the arena, then! Well, it does seem hunting is not as popular as it once was here. The younger people seem more drawn to the attractions of city life. I still enjoy pursuing the red deer here in the area, though."

“Then you are honoured to share a trait with our father then! Caesar has always enjoyed the blood sports." Nero exclaimed before his brother had a chance to respond.

“He just enjoys blood generally.” Remarked Geoff dryly, which prompted a laugh from Nero. Ben however, like the others, kept silent. It wouldn’t do to be seen snickering at the expense of the Roman Emperor.

He was almost glad when the brothers began to chat about their various relations. It gave him a proper opportunity to assess the surroundings. Gently picking at the latest tray of delicacies, Ben was surprised to see none other than Ra'aya Ahmadi, the new NNS lead broadcaster, sat just a few tables down. She looked to be sat among a group of people Ben vaguely recognised as NNS directors and was one of the few women present who weren’t serving. Fascinating, journalists weren’t traditionally seen as persons of influence or celebrity in Natufia, maybe things were different in the Imperium? He made a mental note to ask Titianus.

He spent the next half hour in a rather pleasant conversation with a Natufian vineyard owner near Kerak and a Roman senator, discussing ways to get set-up a distribution centre in the senator's district. It was only a half-heard comment from Nero that drew his attention back to the brothers.

“So, Geoff.” Nero said, gesticulating for more wine. “Your message implied that you had to talk to me rather urgently. Nothing too bad I trust?”

The duke picked at his food indifferently, but Ben thought he could see a glint of satisfaction in the young man’s eyes. “It depends on your perspective I suppose.” He said airily. “But for the Natufians and the Imperium…I can’t see it ending well.”

The joviality on Nero’s face dropped like a bolder plummeting off a cliff and Ben could see his dark eyes narrow.

“Does it need to be said in private?”

Once again, the surrounding conversation began to die off as nearby people strained to hear what was going on.

"Not really, it'll be common knowledge soon enough, Imperial Highness, and I suppose it does affect the High Chief here…”

Ben sat up, concern staring to well in his chest. "You have news I should know about, your Grace?"

"I came pretty much as soon as I heard. It turns out my beloved mother recently received a deputation from a group of Natufians calling themselves 'the Consortium'. I hear they were requesting military and financial support… in their attempt to break free from Natufia."

On hearing this Ben dropped his utensils and sat back in his chair with a deeply perturbed groan. He looked up and away for a moment before regaining his composure; quickly searching for an appropriate response. This was far from the most ideal venue to receive this news, he briefly wondered if Geoffrey was intentionally trying to embarrass him or make his look weak, or, as more likely the case, just wasn't thinking like that. It really didn't matter, Ben thought to himself, it was a fact and must be acknowledged and dealt with as such.

"They go too far, now," he said shaking his head. "I know of this so-called Consortium but until now, they seemed to be simply trying to make noise and preparing to make a deal. They may still be. Your Grace, may I ask if your gracious mother, the Queen, has agreed to their request?"

"I have no idea, High Chief." Geoffery said vaguely. "She refused to even discuss the matter with me, though I believe she will be inclined to accept." He looked down at his meal again. "Her and great Caesar are... in discord currently, I fear she will see this as an opportunity to spite him."

As Ben’s mind raced with this new information, he spotted that Nero had remained uncharacteristically silent and was carefully observing his reaction. He cusped his hands and brought his thumb to his lips in a pensive gesture. It wasn’t enough and his body yearned to pace the room and think, but he didn’t dare rise before Nero and contented himself with gently tracing the rim of his cup.

“Perhaps I can speak directly with her and dissuade her. Or with the Consortium and their leaders. If I am not mistaken, Krisik Enterprises is the largest company in their group, so Petra Krisik is probably at the helm. She is a sensible businesswoman."

Ben looked about the table, feeling several sets of important eyes staring at him. He decided he needed to make sure everyone knew where he stood and avoid any sign of wavering.

"Of course, I could never allow Heartfilian troops to cross onto Natufian soil unanswered and the idea that this Consortium could secede from the Commonwealth is just foolish. I think they are just posturing to get a better business deal. But if not....well, that does not make for polite dinner conversation."

He locked eyes with Nero, determined to read the prince’s inscrutable expression. The Roman, however, only clicked his tongue.

“Krisik Enterprises…” He stretched out a little further. “The name rings a bell.”

“Indeed, Imperial Highness.” Answered someone in senatorial dress sat a sofa or two down. “Their offices in Asgar City were forcibly shut down by Edmund De'Lance a few years ago...it was quite the diplomatic incident."

“Handily resolved by your personal involvement, Imperial Highness!” Added a younger fellow, who Ben assumed to be the man’s son.”

“Oh yes, that’s the one.” The prince’s voice was growing progressively softer. “Quite the incident indeed.” Nero’s eyes flicked to Ben, and he felt the hairs his neck rise in response. “Old family business, isn’t it?”

"Indeed, your highness. Krisik Enterprises was built from a timber and furniture manufacturing business by her father. They were in Asgareth to log the hardwoods there. I think she was just a VP in charge of procurement or something back then. Her father is mostly retired now and she's soon to take over as CEO. But yes, it was her family business that was involved with that... confiscation."

“Oh brother.” Tutted Geoffrey, understanding in his eyes. “I never thought you'd take a leaf out of that old pervert's book.”

Nero’s head whipped round with astonishing speed and, although he could only see the back of the prince’s head, Ben could still feel the sharpness of his gaze. Geoffrey quickly looked down, seemingly subdued. “The best place to hit a businessman is in his check book, remember that one little brother.”

He turned to Ben, some of his intensity having bled away. “I would not negotiate with the likes of this 'Petra Krisik', to do so would be to grant her and her movement legitimacy. They must instead be informed that any hostile action against the Commonwealth or the Imperium will be responded to in kind.” He tightened his grip on his wine cup. “You must threaten to seize all company assets in Natufia, the Imperium and anywhere else we hold influence, just as De'Lance once did. At the same time take measures to systematically close all lines of credit with Imperial aligned banks. If her assets, and those of her associates, look to be imperilled, they'll soon quiet down. If they don’t.” He motioned nebulously to the Skjdolurian Guardsmen lining the walls. “We will have to find additional methods of persuasion.”

Ben bit his lip. He hadn’t been expecting such an…extreme opening gambit. The plan sounded good in theory and may have even been effective in the tightly regulated Imperium, but it was clear Nero had yet to understand the laissez faire nature of the Natufian economy.

"Indeed, your highness, these are wise words. I do wish it were that easy. Krisik Enterprises' physical assets are concentrated around Jeddah City, where this Consortium exerts the most control. We can certainly freeze financial assets, but only those accounts we can positively link to the business, of course. And she may be calculating she can make up any loss in the Commonwealth and the Imperium by new business in Heartfilia. Not to mention as a multinational, a substantial part of their income comes from overseas." He leaned forward slightly, in an unconscious show of supplication. "I trust his Highness understands.... these are still my fellow countrymen under my care, and my ability to effectively govern depends on how I take them back into the fold. Justice must be seen to have prevailed, the kind of justice Natufians recognize. So, I think, for longer-term stability, I must, according to custom, hold a peace commission to offer a chance for this Consortium to dissolve itself and recant any loyalty they may have towards Heartfilia. If they refuse...then I am within my right to use...police action...as it were. Though I am very pleased that his Highness is willing to help us do so."

Ben felt his cheeks tinge a faint rouge as an overwhelming stillness enveloped the table. The senator to his right seemed to be physically trying to distance himself from the interaction as Nero’s eyes narrowed. Ben looked back at the Imperial Prince. His eyes wide, passive but firm. He might have said too much but he had given his honest feelings about the situation. If there was one thing he was absolutely certain about, it was that to do any less would make him unworthy of his uncles' illustrious legacy.

Nero’s face abruptly shifted again to a broad grin, as he let out a boisterous laugh and Ben felt his shoulders loosen as the tension drained from the table.

“Well said, Benjamin.” The prince patted him on the arm; a little too hard for Ben’s liking, but to his immense relief he saw no obvious malice in the Roman’s eyes. “You must honour the custom of your people; I would do no less in your shoes. I suppose that with that barbarian Masum beating his war drum in the south, and the horrific violence in the south-west, picking our battles will be prudent.”

"Yes, your highness, your wisdom is a benefit to us all. Indeed, if we can postpone any eventual conflict with the Consortium, we can concentrate on those who are in outright rebellion. I don't think any reconciliation effort is required with Masum as he has now declared himself a "Jarl" of Skjoldur and attempted violent action. Likewise, this "Red Horn" group in the Baidha lands have attacked a sitting chief of the Commonwealth outside any conventions of dispute. I don't think we have any other options there but to dispose of each of them." He took a quick breath but before Nero could respond quickly added, "But fortunately, thanks to Proconsul Titianus's efforts, at least New Jericho is protected."

"Yes, I had to sign off on that bribe myself...It was quite a large amount. You must pass on my congratulations to Cincius Titianus, he performed his role adequately.” Nero signalled to a passing server and gently extracted a canapé. “However, we cannot simply allow this Consortium to plot dissent. We must take at least some effort to contain them.”

Geoff sighed loudly, waving away the same tray. “Indeed, brother dearest.” He said, voice heavily laden with sarcasm. “If only there was someone in this country with extensive ties to both the Heartfilian court and the Imperium. Such an unlikely person could almost certainly make serious headway in Jeddah City…but alas.” He took a dainty sip from his wine.

Nero snorted. “You cannot be serious, are you even shaving yet, Geoff?” The rest of the group started to snicker at the prince’s jest, though Ben abstained; choosing instead to offer Geoff his best look of encouragement.

The young man, however, seemed unphased. “I put on my toga virilis two years ago, brother, I’m surprised you don’t recall- it was a rather lavish ceremony. I seem to recall you spent a lot of time with my sister Catherine…”

Nero silenced his younger brother with a dismissive wave of a hand, his other occupied with gently massaging his temple. “Yes, yes, be quiet. Are you truly that bored?”

Geoff shrugged, flippantly obeying his brother’s command. Ben felt an odd surge of pride at Geoff’s attitude but fought to smother it. He realised that he genuinely liked the youth and that there was a good chance this wouldn’t end well for him.

“Fine.” Nero eventually said, looking round and snapping his fingers. An elderly man in secretary’s attire stepped forward; head bowed. “Pallas, draft a missive to Caesar. Inform him that the Duke of Anjou is taking personal responsibility for the western provinces of Natufia and put together the appropriate papers.”

As the aged aide withdrew, the prince stretched out languidly on his couch, affecting an air of nonchalance, but Ben could still see the predatory glint in his eye. “I suppose you’d better enjoy tonight, brother dearest. Tomorrow you leave for Jeddah City.”

Geoff continued to say nothing but raised his cup high in acknowledgement, never once breaking eye-contact with his half-sibling.

“A toast!” Ben found himself shouting, much to his own shock and horror, having raised his own cup. “His Imperial Highness, and the host of hosts, Gaius Octavius Nero!”

Almost immediately similar sentiments were echoed throughout the room, as the guests raced to be among the first to raise their drinks to the prince. Interest drawn from his younger brother, Nero gracefully accepted the tribute and lifted his own drink. “To unity and brotherhood, under the auspices of mighty Caesar. Hail Caesar!”

“Hail!” Ben cried with the others, relieved to observe that Geoff had possessed the sense to quietly excuse himself.

“So, Benjamin.” Nero said softly, beckoning a senator forward to take his brother’s vacated place. “Let us discuss how the Imperium can offer more concrete support to your regime…”

by **Romae in Perpetuum** » Sun Aug 15, 2021 11:42 am

F. Minicius Aemilianus: The Bear General

Ein Gev, Alber State Commonwealth of Natufia

a.d. XIV Kal. Martius, 2130 AUNC

Thwack

Aemilianus only just raised the sword in time to block the vicious overhead swing, the two weapons locked at a point so close to the Roman’s nose that he could smell the varnished wood.

Crack

It was his opponent who pulled away first, not wanting to be caught in a contest of pure strength, effortlessly dancing out of the way of Aemilianus’ own counter thrust.

Woosh

Again, the younger man managed to avoid contact, but Aemilianus was sure that his superior reach would be enough to prevent a successful counter. He was almost proved wrong when the other man tried to sidestep past his guard, but with a startling burst of speed Aemilianus checked the motion with his bulk, forcing his opponent to shuffle back a few steps.

Crack

Thud

Bang

The general knew he couldn’t keep up this pace for long. Sweat was already glistening on his bare chest, soaking into his grey-black abundance of body hair. Not for the first time he cursed his aging body and its poor stamina. In his prime he could’ve easily fought two opponents twice as good as this one!

Bash

Aemilianus bit back a curse as a hit was scored right on his knuckles and pain exploded down his arm. Alright, maybe not two of them, he admitted to himself. The Natufian’s footwork was incredible, constantly shifting, propelling the man all around the red-taped circle. Aemilianus had long given up on trying to match his movements, trying to plant himself with the tape guarding his back and shifting into a defensive stance, waiting for his enemy to make a mistake.

Thud

Crack

The problem was that the Natufian didn’t seem to be making any! In their previous sessions the man had been fairly predictable, standard forms with the odd variation thrown in for good measure; schoolboy stuff really. Today, though, he seemed a totally different swordsman, using a fair few of Aemilianus’ own strikes against him but with a fluidity that Aemilianus knew he’d never possessed.

Bang

Crack

Crash

Aemilianus’ own weapon seemed to be getting slipperier by the second and a quick glance down confirmed that the Natufian’s strike had been hard enough to draw blood, which had started to seep past the guard. Jupiter! He couldn’t afford to start losing his grip now! Aemilianus met his adversary’s eyes and could see a hunger in there he’d not noticed before. The attacks grew more pressing, and the generals own defence grew more desperate as the Natufian pushed his hard-won advantage.

Despite all that Aemilianus was determined to fight on. His muscles screamed in protest as he forced his tired arms to beat off strike after strike, his wounded hand throbbing with pain and acrid beads of sweat obscuring his vision. He was starting to slow, though, sheer grit proving an insufficient counter to the other man’s youth and speed, it was only a matter of time…

“Dux Vexillatiis.” Sounded an unexpected voice from somewhere behind Aemilianus. “I beg leave to report.”

The sudden interruption threw the Natufian off his stride and Aemilianus saw him crane his neck to look over his own broad shoulders.

Aemilianus punched him.

The slight man instantly collapsed to the ground; head jerked at an uncomfortable angle by the sheer strength of the Roman’s blow. In an act of sheer desperation, Aemilianus had thrown all his remaining strength into a brutal left hook that had taken the Natufian square in the temple, leaving him splayed out on the hard gymnasium floor.

For a split second Aemilianus feared that he’d accidently killed the man, but to his immense relief the prone figure groaned softly and began to get to his feet, waving away the attendants who’d rushed to him.

“I must admit, Dux.” Murmured Durril Antonius Faustinus, holding a rapidly swelling eye. “Pater never taught me that one.”

“It’s not exactly a legal move strictly speaking.” Aemilianus panted. “But an effective one nonetheless.”

Seizing Durril’s wrist with a single paw-like hand, the Bear General hauled the other man to his feet and gave the wound a quick appraisal. It would hurt like hell for a few days, might need a stitch or two, but Durril would be alright. Aemilianus felt pangs of shame rise from his stomach, he shouldn’t have done that. Better to have just conceded there and then, admit what most of the world already knew: duelling was a young man’s game.

“Commander, that was…unprofessional, I apologise unreservedly. The match is yours.”

Durril looked up at him with a look of pure shock and…shame? That couldn’t be right.

“No, sir.” He said shaking his marred head. “I let myself get distracted; I underestimated my opponent’s ability to continue fighting. I’ve failed you and myself. It will never happen again. By your leave?”

Stunned, Aemilianus could only nod his head as Durril saluted as best he could and strode out of the gymnasium. The younger man seemed conflicted, maybe it was the unexpected speed at which the rogue chief Masum had advanced towards their position? Or even the recently foiled attack on New Jerico that was eating him up? Either way, he would need to learn to put any internal unease or doubts aside; before they broke him.

He half considered going after the Natufian commander, but an insistent cough from behind reminded him of his erstwhile saviour.

“Praefectus.” Acknowledged Aemilianus, turning around to greet his chief adjunct. Now the adrenaline had begun to fade, he was acutely aware of the fresh crops of bumps and bruises forming across his immense body and the shortness of his breath. This would have to be quick.

“Apologies for interrupting your…recreation, sir; but you left standing orders to be informed immediately. Caesius Rufus has arrived in the city.”

A surge of elation wiped away all Aemilianus’s fatigue and, half naked and sweat-covered as he was, he felt an overwhelming urge to jump for joy. “At last, He’s two days late! Prepare the senior staff and advise Chief Nampe to join. We meet in an hour!”

---

When Aemilianus finally arrived in the newly designated ‘Control Centre for the Direction of the Defence of the Commonwealth’- mercifully nicknamed ‘the War Room’ by the small army of technicians and analysts that kept the place running- he was pleased to see that everyone had shown up on time, even Commander Durril had managed to attend, all be it with two fresh stitches. The representatives of Chief Misak Azizian had arrived earlier in the week and the General made sure to exchange nods with them, but it was the new arrival he was most eager to see.

“Rufus you old dog! If they’ve sent you, the situation can’t be half as bad as I thought.”

“Thinking’s never been your strong suit, Aemilianus.” Replied the Legate with a grin as the two men grasped each other’s forearms- Aemilianus fighting back a grimace as pain flared in his wounded knuckles. Caesius Rufus was far from a small fellow- he’d even gained a few pounds since Aemilianus had last seen him- but he was still dwarfed by the Bear General, particularly swathed in his bear-pelt cloak. Rufus’ uniform was immaculate, displaying a series of impressive service awards that were almost enough to keep attention from his retreating hairline. The two had been junior tribunes together years back and had been firm friends ever since.

When Prince Nero had finally authorised the deployment of a full mechanised legion to the province, Aemilianus had instantaneously requested Rufus’ Legio XV ‘the Fists of Mars’ which had long been held as one of the best units in the southern Imperium.

“Look at you!” Rufus said looking Aemilianus up and down. “A Dux with command of an entire campaign, I’m almost jealous.”

“Provisional command.” Aemilianus corrected gently. “Nova Roma might still choose to send a full Dux and stick me back in Pannonia.”

“Nonsense! We’ll put these traitors to route soon enough, and it’ll be triumphal ornaments and medals for all. Maybe you’ll start wearing yours, eh?” Rufus lightly brushed Aemilianus’s unadorned tunic. He’d never liked wearing any of his decorations, they took the slaves too long to polish. He was reasonably sure his wife had framed them…somewhere.

It was only when Chief Nampe cleared his throat quite obviously that Aemilianus remembered he should’ve really offered formal introductions first.

“My apologies, Chief.” He said, inclining his head to the Natufian. “This is Legatus Legionis Caesius Rufus of the ‘Fists of Mars’, his men are going to bring that traitor Masum’s head to you on a platter. Legate, this is our gracious host and ally Chief Nampe of the Alber.”

“A pleasure to meet another officer of the Imperial Army.” Replied Nampe solemnly. “Two of my sons are officers in the Natufian Auxiliary Regiments and we here in Alber have nothing but the deepest respect for the legions.”

“My boys are always ready and eager to defend loyal subjects of the Imperium, Chief.” Responded Rufus, mirroring the Chief’s tone.

“A task that’ll be substantially easier, now the Legate has joined his forces to our own.” Interjected Durril, holding out an arm towards Rufus. “Durril Antonius Faustinius.”

“An interesting name, young man.” Said Rufus, taking the offered arm.

“Antonius Faustinus here is the Commander of the Oren militia, as well as their chief representative in Ein Gev.” Explained Aemilianus.

“As well as your latest sparring partner, I see.” Rufus said, appraising the rapidly darkening bruise on the Natufian’s face. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Faustinius, you should’ve seen the mark he left when he first tried that on me. The Ursus Dux is growing long in the tooth, it seems.”

“I can still give you a good hiding, old man.” Aemilianus replied gruffly. It was a good-natured enough jibe, but his smarting hand proved too much of it true for his liking. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Aemilianus lead the group deeper into the war-room, past the rows of computers and operators; taking care to return every salute as he did so, until they reached a series of seats positioned around a giant screen that took up the entirety of the far most wall. When everyone was comfortably seated, Aemilianus took up a position to its right and gave a signal.

The screen burst to life with an explosion of colour, revealing an enormous satellite image of the Natufian Commonwealth- from the fertile Ad-Dihr planes to the west, pierced by the mighty Loire River, to the arid mountains and dunes of the Negev desert. The gathered personnel barely had time to take in the sheer detail of it all before a series of overlays and pop-ups appeared, indicating everything from political boundaries to weather patterns.

“As you can see, Gentlemen.” Aemilianus lectured, graciously accepting a small remote of a nearby aide. “We’re in something of an interesting situation.” With a hardly audible click five translucent colours appeared layered over the map.

“This is a rough estimation of the current divisions among the tribes. The Commonwealth can confidently claim sway over the northmost territories all the way to Alber in the west to Dikikoyun to the east. Beyond that is the Emir’s territory who, so I’ve been informed, has always been an unreliable participant in the Jericho government to say the least.”

Chief Nampe grimaced at the remark, his disdain for the Harifians a matter of record.

“However, the Emir has neither declared himself to be in rebellion or openly defied the authority of New Jerico.” Yet. Aemilianus thought, but it was a problem for another time. “The same can be said for the Jeddah, Doha and Aghaz, while their representatives haven’t supported Benjamin al-Ahuqba they’ve yet to repudiate his authority.” Another situation that may change on a quadrans, but this ‘Consortium’ looked to be more of a commercial arrangement that a military alliance, and as such Aemilianus had judged it a lesser threat.

“The main challenges to Commonwealth authority are from the Red Horn insurrection plaguing Oshala and, of course, the self-proclaimed ‘Jarl’ Masum.”

The room became a little more fractious at the mentioning of the Gobleki chief; Commander Durril’s muscles visibly tensed, his gaze unwavering from Masum’s southern domain, Chief Nampe outwardly adopted a similar pose, but Aemilianus could see the trepidation in his eyes. He didn’t judge the Natufian for his reaction, far from it. If even half of Paulus’ reports on the man were true, he was the perfect storm of brutality and ability who seemed to have no regard for the lives of his countrymen, and he was sat right on the border of Alber territory.

In his heart of hearts though Aemilianus knew he didn’t see this man as a threat or even an individual; he only saw the challenge and the thrill of battle.

“Our situation is Oshala is, to put it bluntly, untenable.” With a few more clicks Aemilianus had zoomed into the rugged region and superimposed the latest known troop movements. “Without a clear leader to rally behind the remaining Baidha loyalists are being isolated and eliminated one by one, with many of them even going over to the insurrectionists. While it’s true that Praetorian Intelligence had maintained a presence in the city itself, we understand that their assets have gone to ground for now.”

“What about their nominal chief?” Rufus asked, flipping through his own dossier. “This Saham Baidhae Commodus?”

“A boy of no more than seventeen.” Answered Nampe. “While he automatically acceded to the post on his father’s death, he’s yet to be confirmed in New Jericho, though my envoys in the capital have confirmed his presence in the city.”

“Regardless, Chief Saham has no forces of his own to supplement ours.” Added Aemilianus. “While a useful personage to have around, we can’t afford to commit our forces in Dikikoyun to any meaningful offensive, not without presenting the Emir too tempting a target. The best we can do for now is utilise Commonwealth and Imperial air assets in the region to contest the air space and supply loyalist holdouts for as long as possible.”

“What of further reinforcement?” Chief Nampe said, nodding towards Dikikoyun. “Surely an additional legion sent to the eastern regions would be enough to prosecute a campaign in the south?”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Replied Rufus before Aemilianus had a chance to; not that he minded much, Rufus usually kept his finger on the pulse of military politics. “The standoff over the Shangese Islands is showing serious signs of escalation, High Command will be loath to pull out any forces from the western Imperium in-case tensions with the Oceanii and Jiqazi spill over. Likewise, the southern provinces are already undermanned, and their governors won’t stand for whatever they have left being taken. Me and the Fifteenth are all you’ll be getting for now, Aemilianus.” He grinned, eyes alight with a lupine glint. “Poor buggers don’t have a chance!”

Aemilianus returned the smile, Rufus had been discontented to say the least when he’d missed out on re-deployment to the west. He was just as eager as Aemilianus himself to earn a little glory...and defend the Natufian people; he forcibly reminded himself.

“The upstart Masum will soon be made to realise that. The latest intel shows he’s gathering forces for a full assault on New Jericho, using Joshua’s Town as a staging point.” The image refocused onto the relevant region, a cluster of navy blue-coloured symbols indicating Masum’s forces appearing as it did so.

Durril sat up in his chair, alarm obvious even through his bruising. “Even with Chief Wassab’s militia on side, a force that size could still break though, it must be a full two-thirds of his forces!”

“I agree.” rumbled Nampe. “Surely a wiser course of action would be to redeploy the Legion to defend the capital.” He paused a moment. “Not that I wish to give any offence, Dux Vexillatiis, but to put New Jerico at risk so soon after Cinicus Titianus secured it...”

“None taken, I assure you.” Answered Aemilianus amicably, though he’d have confessed to feeling a flicker of annoyance, he hadn’t been interrupted this much in years. It didn’t help that Titianus was being hailed as a saviour for merely paying a recusant chief off; the man’s family hadn’t produced a decent general in years and it was certainly showing. “By bringing his forces to bear on Jericho state, Masum has severely weakened the defences of Tabqa and southern Colrida.”

The focus shifted this time to Ein Gev and the surrounding regions, a mixture of magenta and forest green symbols representing the combined Roman-Commonwealth forces. “Leaving the auxiliary regimenti to guard the approaches to Ein Gev and the north, our combined forces will smash through the Masum-allied militia and from there advance into Tabqa proper. The Legion, under Rufus, can then swing east to secure the routes to Colirida and the Praetorian Regiment guarding his Imperial Highness, while the Commonwealth militias overrun and liberate Frescan. It’s plausible that, given the humiliation Mausum has suffered, the local tribes will start defecting as we begin to make sufficient headway. With his flank exposed and the potential for further desertions ever-present, Masum will either become trapped between us and the capital or be forced to withdraw to his heartlands along the Skjoldurian border. Either way, New Jericho is secure.”

Aemilianus appraised the room’s reaction to his plan, keeping a close eye on Chef Nampe as he did so. Since the Commonwealth army lacked a centralised hierarchy, he remained the highest ranked individual in the region but he still lacked the formal authority from Nova Roma and New Jericho to command the militia; the support of the Chiefs- or their representatives- was still a necessity.

“A masterful plan, Dux.” Durril said, getting to his feet. “Marcius Coriolanus himself would approve.”

“Not bad at all.” Rufus agreed, still studying the map intensely. “We’ll see how Masum’s rabble handle a fully equipped Roman Legion.” He cracked his knuckles, then noticed Nampe and the Kerak representatives looking at him. “Not to mention our valued allies...of course.”

Nampe nodded his approval. “I am not a military man like the rest of you, but I follow the logic. I will instruct my commanders and captains to attach themself to your command, Dux.”

Aemilianus felt his heart soar, that made two tribal forces under his direction now- he made a mental note to send a dispatch home as soon as possible. The chances of a higher-ranking general being sent south were shrinking by the day.

“You have my thanks, Chief.” He said, performing the Natufian gesture of respect. “Return to your officers, gentlemen. We attack in two days.”

Ap. Cincius Titianus: The Pensive Proconsul

New Jericho, Jericho State, Commonwealth of Natufia

a.d. XIV Kal. Martius, 2130 AUNC

The traffic’s not that bad today. Thought Titianus idly, starring out of the broad glass window that backlit his office. The councillor for infrastructure must actually be doing his job for once. His gaze inevitably drifted to the Government Building across Uki Square, a giant concrete affair that never failed to fill the Proconsul with an overwhelming sense of malaise, particularly when he compared it to the Proconsular Palace.

Titianus’ own official residence-cum-office was a striking structure defined by its narrow arches and coloured marble exterior; its entrance flanked by two temple-like edifices and leading to a large, yet elegant, courtyard which housed a number of statues, fountains and benches that Titianus had opened up to the general public on its completion a year or so ago. He’d taken to people-watching over the last few months, his own office situated perfectly above the main buildings triangular roof and it saddened him to see it unoccupied aside from a few scribes and minor staffers. Given the recent security concerns, he’d been given rather little choice in the matter but he missed the happy chatter, nevertheless.

Sighing softly to himself, Titianus dragged himself away from the window and looked over the mess of papers strewn about his dark ebony desk. All that remained of his Harifian Development Initiative proposal, shelved before it even reached a second draft. Given the Emir’s recent snub of Benjamin- and by extension the Imperium- and the rumours of foreign presences in Masraq there was no way it would even receive a preliminary hearing before the Senate now. It was a shame, many of his political allies back home had been quite enthusiastic and he’d received declarations of interest from quite a few groups- including the Roman Senatorial Society; a small, but growing cabal of influential senators of which his youngest brother was now included.

Sweeping the papers aside, Titianus resumed his seat and began scrolling through the latest status reports on one of his tripartite monitors. The audible rattling of keyboards from outside the door confirmed his host of secretaires and admin staff were still hard at work furthering the Commonwealth’s latest strategy to contain the slippery Emir Bassen. Everything from acceptable concessions to articles of attainment were being drafted, checked and re-drafted for the High Chief’s return, alongside communiques to the various tribal groups and even an ongoing discourse with the Slavacian Embassy.

Titianus’ researchers had unearthed the Second Treaty of Salinae from the Imperial Records on hearing Renzo’s decleration - which contained a small but pertinent clause regarding Slavacia’s recognition of Roman suzerainty over the tribes and peoples of Natufia in perpetuum- and Titianus had presented it to the Conciliary ambassador over lunch a few days ago. He had come back with a ‘hypothetical’ scenario that would exempt the self-proclaimed ‘NSSR’ if it became a constituent part of the USCR, Titianus had pointed to the geographical definitions given by the document and the two had verbally spared for a good hour or so, though had now both handed the debate over to their subordinates. Titianus severely doubted that this would actually prevent Slavacia from interfering in the Oshala conflict, but it might be enough to stop the Supreme Soviet from formally acknowledging the Red Horn movement, for the meantime anyway.

The Proconsul was reading an account of Harifian troop deployments from the Governor of Syria, when he was interrupted by the distinctive squeak of his door and its damned warped hinge. Looking up, he saw a youngish man rapidly approaching his mid 30’s dressed in the familiar raiment of a principal private secretary, though Titianus couldn’t quite place the fellow’s name.

“Proconsul?” He asked. “Praetorian Prefect Aulus Vitellius has requested immediate admittance.”

Titianus suppressed a groan, he had absolutely no desire to meet with the grim-faced Praetorian and severely doubted the man had ‘requested’ anything; but even a man in his position couldn’t refuse a face to face with the most senior Praetorian in the region.

“Send him in.” Titianus sighed, feeling a headache coming on. “And be sure to close the door behind you.” He added as an afterthought.

The man bowed his head and withdrew though, notably, failed to close the door exposing Titianus to a cacophony of clattering keyboards from his other principal secretaries. The usual low chatter was conspicuously absent though and without it, Titianus could hear the slow but steady tap of a stick hitting tiles getting progressively louder.

Eventually a black-clad figure emerged through the door way and looked straight at Titianus who felt his back involuntarily tense. Vitellius was- for the most part- unremarkable; average height, average build with the olive skin and dark eyes that spoke of a clear Italic/Achaean heritage. This carefully cultivated indistinctiveness, however, clashed horribly with a vicious patchwork of scars that marred the left side of his face all the way past his collar. Though his uniform covered most of the damage, he moved with a debilitating limp aided only by a slim silver-topped cane clutched in a black-gloved hand; the result of a Harrenite car bomb from the latter days of the Sebastos Restoration, Titianus had pulled the man’s file.

“Prefect.” Acknowledged Titianus as the agent neared.

“Proconsul.” Rasped Vitellius dipping his clean-shaven head, the door creaking firmly shut behind him. The disfigured Praetorian made no motion to sit and Titianus made none to offer him a chair. “Misak Azizian has confirmed that his personnel have departed the province and the Chiefess has made contact with our assets, the plan is proceeding according to schedule.”

“Splendid.” Said the Proconsul flatly, unconsciously tensing his fingers. “It’s high time Masum learns exactly who he’s dealing with. The latest word from his encampment?”

“He is said to still be in an apoplexy of rage.” Vitielius snorted derisively. “He has declared Wassab and his entire clan his blood enemies and has publicly sworn to exterminate their whole line.” His lips tightened. “It seems your assertions were correct, Proconsul.”

Titianus felt a strong surge of satisfaction, though took care to show none of it. In a single moment the barbarian Masum had turned Wassab from a dubious ally at best, to the most fervent supporter the al-Shuqba clan would ever have. Both his life, and the lives of all his vassals, we’re now irrevocably tied to the fate of Benjamin and Rome.

“Masum is a brute, an effective one, but a brute none the less.” Titianus said coolly. “His mannerisms are no harder to predict than those of any low-animal.”

“As you say, Proconsul.” Croaked Vitellius. “My informants have yet to penetrate his innermost circles, but I’m confident that we will soon be close enough to remove him quietly.” He paused; pain-filled eyes fixed firmly on Titianus. “As per your instructions, Proconsul.”

“Instructions ratified by Aelius Sejanus.” Titianus reminded the Praetorian sharply, Vitellius was lobbying fiercely in Nova Roma for the chance to just assassinate Masum, regardless of the cost or consequence. Thankfully, regarding this affair at least, the head of PI was in agreement with Titianus- for now. “Has your team in Oshala reported any progress with the Red Horn insurgency?” He asked, wanting to avoid getting dragged into the same argument again.

Vitellius’ scarred eye twitched slightly, but he didn’t push the matter further. “Communication has been...sporadic. At last word, they claimed to have intercepted communiques between Renzo and a high ranking official in the Slavacian government, pertaining to the deployment of an MGB Colonel to Oshala. Cerebrum has asked for permission to intercept and question this individual, I approved.”

Now it was Titianus’ turn to twitch. If anything severe happened to that Colonel the situation in Oshala would very likely escalate dangerously. “Our contacts in the MGB?”

“Nothing.” Vitellius suddenly clutched his cane tighter and Titianus could see the man’s left side spasm, though his ruined face changed little. “Neither through the official or unofficial channels. If they were going to declare him, they’d have done it by now.”

“Agreed. It’s also possible that knowledge of his deployment is being restricted even in the organisation itself.”

“It’s irrelevant.” said the Praetorian through a clenched jaw. “They’re aware of their remit and it’s limits.”

“It’s not their remit I’m concerned with.” Vitellius’s hadn't been the only Praetorian file Titianus had read, though even with his connections there was still far too much redacted about the Caput Lupi for his liking. “You will pass on any information they exact.” That wasn’t exactly an order, Titianus didn’t have the authority to directly command the Praetorian, though it wasn’t exactly a request either.

“I will pass on whatever is deemed necessary to accomplish the mission. I will appraise the relevant people of your concerns, Proconsul.” Vitellius grunted.

The two staired at each other in silence for a full minute. Both aware that their meeting had run its course but neither willing to be the first to break. Eventually, aware of his many duties needed to keep the New Jerico government functioning, Titianus nodded.

“Thank you, Prefect. That should suffice.”

Without another word, Vitellius turned around and limped out of the room; Titianus’ eyes following his retreating form as he went. It was only when the door was firmly closed that Titianus allowed himself to exhale, holding his head in his hands and running his fingers through his steel grey hair.

Only a fool wouldn’t fear Praetorian Intelligence, no one bar Caesar himself was beyond their reach, but it was the bigger fool who let it show. Taking a moment to collect himself, Titianus wrapped his keyboard and resumed his work.

by **The Natufian Nation** » Tue Aug 17, 2021 5:32 pm

BREAKING NEWS - ARCOVIAN FORCES WITHDRAW FROM HARIF

This is Ra'aya Ahmadi reporting for the Natufian News Service. NNS sources in Masraq have confirmed the withdrawal of Arcovian forces from the Emirate of Harif. Having only arrived a short time ago, the sudden decision to reverse course and recall the troops has been a debilitating shock to Harif and rekindles hope of a deescalation of tensions and a peaceful solution to the crisis there. However, Aexorouwyth forces still remain illegally in Harif.

The decision comes in the wake of recent parliamentary elections in the Arcovian Assembly which saw an unexpected shift in power to the opposition party confronting Prime Minister Yasok Makry. Citing abuse of power and unauthorized deployment of military forces, the non-interventionist Conservative opposition party, in a coalition with moderates of the Yellowic Democratic party, have forced the Prime Minister to reverse step or face a vote of no-confidence he is likely not able to survive.

Back in the Natufian Nation, a statement from the office of High Chief Benjamin al-Shuqba praised the Arcovian Assembly for showing responsibility and leadership in respecting the border integrity of the Commonwealth and its internal affairs. The High Chief further stated he hopes to continue to improve relations with the Arcovian government and has reinforced the diplomatic mission in the Arcovian capital of Sirtárva.

Proconsul Cincius Titianus, however, had shaper words to say. I caught up with him a short time ago as he left the Proconsular Palace...

[jerky video footage begins of Ra'aya trying to approach through a wall of staffers as Titianus and his security detail emerge from the north entrance to the palace where his limousine waits in the carport. Other camera teams from competing news outlets are briefly seen as the camera angle jostles around. The camera finally steadies as the proconsul spots Ra'aya and waves for his escort to make way for the camera teams, pointing to Ra'aya first.]

Ra'aya - "Proconsul, do you have any comments about the sudden withdrawal of Arcovian forces from Harif earlier today?"

Titianus (looking stern but elated) - "They made a smart move and should take safeguards so their leaders don't interfere with Natufian and Imperial matters again. We understand their interest in the potential mineral wealth in Harif but they need to work through New Jericho, not Masraq."

Ra'aya - "What does this mean for Emir Hazat Naseem, do you think?"

Titianus - "Well, I think it means he needs to see the very precarious and dangerous position he is in. Whatever game he is playing, he is clearly losing support for it."

Ra'aya - "What is your message for the Emir?"

Titianus - "Very simple. To acknowledge the vote of the Conclave and accept the leadership of the High Chief." [Titianus is seen about to say something more but stops]

Ra'aya - "And if he doesn't?"

Titianus - [pauses a moment and looks solemnly at the camera] "Harif is an integral part of the Natufian Commonwealth and by extension, the Empire. The people of Harif need to know the High Chief has the full support of the Imperium and his royal majesty, Octavius Gemellus Caesar. In acting as the Protector Natufae through his son, his royal highness, Prince Octavius Nero, he has pledged all the resources he can bear to ensure Natufian unity is preserved. I beseech the local sheikh's to speak sense to the Emir on this."

Ra'aya [somberly] - "A powerful message, indeed, Proconsul. May the ancestors guide us to peace. Thank you for your time."

Titianus [nodding respectfully] - "Certainly. May the wisdom of Minerva prevail. Hail Caesar!"

Ra'aya - "Hail Caesar"

[video clip ends as Titianus turns to take questions from another team. We now see Ra'aya back at her newsdesk ]

As for the Emir, our sources report he is hunkered down in his palace in Masraq with his closest aides to discuss strategy in light of the Arcovian withdrawal. It is beleived he has also summoned General Phyo Kuang of Aexorouwyth who is likely already in route. With Arcovian support gone, he will need to decide how reliable his remaining ally truly is.

This has been Ra'aya Ahmadi with this breaking news. May the blessing of the Great Aurochs be with us all. Thank you for watching Natufian News Service, 'your trusted source for news of the nation'.

Arcovian troops load onto a transport plane bound for home

With tensions high and the future uncertain, scores of Harifians crowd
the Masraq airfield to seek asylum in Arcovia

by **Skjoldur** » Sun Sep 19, 2021 8:17 am

Village of Smástærð, Leiotogi region, Skjoldur, 2 am

Sigurður watched as the embers of the fire slowly burnt away. His cigarette was almost down to the nub, he didn’t even like smoking but in the Kings army you learnt to treasure the three cigarettes a day you were owed, if he was forced to fight for a guy he didn’t like for shit pay he’d be dammed if he was going to miss out of the opportunity to take something off them. Sigurður sat there in the total silence appreciating the peace and quiet that watch duty brought him, to his left a sensor pinged quietly in the corner, nothing to report as usual. Sigurður was sitting in a old watchtower about 900 years old, the tower was on top of a cliff overseeing the ocean. The watchtower had been commissioned by King Haakon the first, the paranoid king had feared an invasion from his brother the Jarl of Haven and had nearly bankrupted his nation building defences around the island of Leiotogi, now 900 years later the defences were nothing more than ruins, used only by teenagers to smoke their first cigarette or a homeless person to find some shelter from the freezing rain and bitter wind that plagued the island. The worse part was Haakon’s brother died before the defences had even been finished, he had fallen off his horse and suffered a brain injury a year after construction began.

As Sigurour pondered the futility of the building he was sitting in a ping started to echo on the sensor, it was a new high-tech piece of equipment built to track Slavacia submarines passing through the area, this was why a ping wasn’t that surprising these things could pick up a shark from three miles away so it went off all the time. Sigurður sighed and threw the remains of his cigarette into the fire, approaching the screen he focused in on the dot that was setting of the alert. It was moving fast, too fast to be an animal, still Sigurður didn’t want to report it, most likely it was some fishermen who had gotten side-tracked, Sigurður didn’t want cause a fuss over nothing, he didn’t want to risk been taken off guard duty and been put back with the main platoon. Sigurður didn't fit the mould of the usual soldier, he was an avid reader and preferred solitude over the raucous drinking and fighting that accompanied most nights in the barracks. In truth Sigurður never wanted to be a soldier, he had always fancied himself a writer and liked the idea writing a book, however a bad winter mixed with his father's alcohol problem had meant the foreclosure of the family farm and Sigurður was left with a choice, ten years mandatory services in the Kings army or prison for failures to pay debt, obviously Sigurður had chosen the latter and that was why he now found himself in a run-down old watchtower watching a blip on the screen trying his best to stave off the cold that was setting in all around him.

As the blip started to ping louder Sigurður swore to himself, he would have to report it, as he reached to his radio a glint caught his eye, as he turned, he had a split second to take in the knife that was hurtling towards him, he didn’t even have a second to scream before the knife pierced his chest, as he fell back, he could tell the blade had pierced his lung, as his mouth began to fill with blood, he though back to his family back home, his unfinished book, he sighed, all he wanted was a little peace and quiet.

Freya watched as the boy's life slowly ebbed away, she watched with amusement as his face expressed several emotions in less than a second then watched with interest as the eyes glazed and his body became lifeless.

Freya shrugged; she didn’t want to kill the boy but he didn’t leave her a choice. Freya turned to the radar, the pinging was getting louder, she sighed taking three steps back and fired seven shots into the machine. Turing to the ocean she clicked her radio three times, free bursts of static filled the air then silence, suddenly the roar of hundred engines filled the night sky and Freya could see ships heading for the shores. Alarms sounded all around Freya, she smiled, it didn't matter, it was too late.

Lojha, Valaker Region, Skjoldur

Harold Haraldsson was annoyed, this Onde Fisse was late, Harold had been warned that he would be, apparently Fisse liked to keep his clients waiting, a power play apparently as Harold sat on his father's throne reading about Bjorn’s invasion of Leiotogi he played about the idea of cancelling the meeting, possibly even going to another supplier. He sighed, sadly Fisse was the biggest and best supplier, no one could match him in quality or numbers. Another 20 minutes passed and Harold became even more impatient, just when he was about to leave an aide arrived informing him that Fisse had arrived. Haraldsson gestured for the group to be invited shown upstairs. Ten minutes later Haraldsson was sitting in his rooftop garden, his great grandfather Vigor Haraldsson had had it commissioned whilst he had been held hostage by the Beowulf clan. Haraldsson’s great grandfather was a clever man and an ambitious one, but that can take you so far after a series of attempts to engineer a scenario where the ancient city of a Viborg would be turned over to his children Vigor had fallen victim to a fate common among clever men, his arrogance had got the better of him. After a series of events where Vigor had spurned the invitation of Damsgaurd leader of the Beowulf clan to a feast. Seeing that as a personal insult Damsgaurd ordered 2000 men to send Vigor a message. In the middle of the night the men climbed into Lojha and took the capital. Valaker was made a vassal jarldom and Vigor was imprisoned for the rest of his life in his palace, that was why Vigor built a garden on his rooftop, Vigor slowly began to lose his mind imprisoned in a palace for thirty years, he wrote a book called the Battle for God which detailed the beginning and debates surrounding Skjoldurian religion, he also tried to build a helicopter but that plan went up in smoke, quite literally. In the end he gave up on all semblance of society or sanity and would drink himself into an early grave with his garden his only legacy of note.

Harold Haraldsson placed himself in the centre of the garden, Harold was sitting on a white garden chair with white table and another white chair facing him. Harold considered how he would sit, did he want to appear imposing or calm or relaxed, he decided on the latter, not wanting to start the meeting off on hostile terms. He gestured towards Alma to bring him a tea, as she was pouring the cup Fisse appeared, he was an ugly man, around 5-foot tall extremely fat, he had broken pudgy nose and small slit eyes, when he smiled, he displayed crooked yellow teeth. He walked with a limp and was forced to use a cane. He wore a black suit, black suit and strangely a black tie, he was dressed for business. As he walked towards Haraldsson to giant bauld men flanked him dressed exactly same as their master. Even though Fisse walked with a limp and was sweating from the sheer exertion of walking there still was demeanour of arrogance that aired off him. He walked with the confidence of a man who knew he could not be touched.

As he sat down there was a moment where the two men eyed each other up, daring the other one to speak first. Eventually Haraldsson broke

“how was your trip” he a thin vale of contempt seeping through his words, Fisse picked up on that and a small smirk appeared on his face

“It was good” he said, his face gave an appearance of friendliness, “sorry I was late, I was distracted”, he said glancing at Alma Haraldsson hid his disgust.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I think we should get down for business?”

“Of course,” said Fisse rubbing his hands together “straight to business”

“Yes” said Haraldsson warily, “now we’ve been looking at the numbers and as a group we feel that due to circumstance, this amount is more sufficient for your services”.

Fisse examined the paper, examining the numbers his eyes narrowed, “this is nowhere near the number I was expecting”.

Haraldsson eyes narrowed, “that number is above market price, we are paying you for exclusivity”

Fisse smirked, “first of all your paying for me attention, you couldn’t afford exclusivity, second of all this is more what I was thinking”

Fisse pushed over the piece of paper and Haraldsson looked at the figure was written. He took a second to compose himself trying to bury the burning feeling of hate that was threating to overwhelm him. “The price you are asking for is ridiculous” he said keeping his emotions in check.

Fisse sighed and gestured towards Alma to refill his cup, “you see, I think you don’t have a choice to be honest” he said coolly as Alma refiled his cup “I am the only one who can provide quality Berserkers with the numbers you need at such short notice, so I suggest you stop arguing and pay”

Haraldsson was about to respond when Fisse without waring grabbed Alma by the back of the neck and slammed he head into the stone table, Haraldsson watched in horror as Fisse continued to smash her face into the table at first, she resisted but after a few seconds her body went limp. Fisse stopped and let Alma’s lifeless body drop to the floor. He then protruded a white handkerchief to clear the spot of blood that was on his face, he glanced at Almas body and sighed. Looking at Haraldsson right in the eye he said “end of the day, you're going to pay me what I want when I want, glancing down at Alma’s body he smiled “If she lives tell her I'm sorry but you had to understand that I'm not to be fucked with” he then turned around and left without saying another word. Haraldsson slumped onto his chair, looking at Alma’s body he noticed that she was still breathing. He shrugged, all in all it went better than he expected.

Ein Gev Central Station, Natufian Nation

John looked at the little child with a hint of amusement, the kid had been pulling on his mother's arm for 10 minutes now, his mum was trying to hush him whilst maintaining a conversation with another women, John could tell from her smile that she hated the women's guts. He checked his watch, “ten minutes”. He had a quick scan of the rest of the room, there were at least 200 people here. He looked back at the child who was now been bribed with a packet of sweets.

“What you looking at?” the voice came from behind him, startling him. He turned around to see Atlas grinning behind him. John swore “what you doing messing around like that?” he said through gritted teeth “were on a mission, you do know that at any moment we could be surrounded and taken to a roman concentration camp?”

Atlas shrugged, “we’d kill anyone who tried”, sitting down on the bench stretching back he looked at the kid that John had been staring at “so, what's up?” he said picking up on Johns body language. “I was just wondering” John said, a hint of wistfulness in his voice, “don’t you ever want that” pointing at the child. Atlas gave the kid a nonchalant glance “what, a crying snot nosed brat, I'm good thanks”. John gave Atlas a furious glance “I meant a family, a normal life” said John in a tone not unlike that a teacher trying to describe mathematics to a child. Atlas scoffed “no, we gave all that up for are people, we offered ourselves so the people of Harren can live free and without fear of Roman persecution. Quite frankly I'm proud of making that sacrifice”. John rolled his eyes “thanks for the speech, I know what I'm doing is for my people” Atlas noticed his friend's demeanour and relented “listen” he said sympathetically “we all volunteered for a reason, we made mistakes in the past and in doing this we can least try and make up for those mistakes”.

Atlas sighed, he understood where John was coming from, his father Balthazar had been the cruel dictator that had brought on the downfall of Harren island. After his father was murdered Atlas had sneaked onto a Skjoldurian refugee boat. One of Atlas most vivid memories was standing at the back of the boat watching the smoke coming from the village he had been hiding in. He remembered looking at the people around him, his people, men, women and children who looked more dead than alive. It was at that moment Atlas had decided to help his people to make up for his father's mistakes, so when the Skjoldurian government had asked for volunteers for the Oheioarlegur programme, he had jumped at the chance, 6 weeks later he was in Novosergievsk killing a man.

Atlas glanced at his watch, thirty seconds, he glanced at John who was still deep in though, he nuged him and showed him his watch, John sighed and shifted slightly in his seat, ten seconds, Atlas took one last look at the child who was now standing next to his mother distracted by the lights on the ceiling. Atlas closed his eyes, “get ready”, BANG. What happened next could only be described as complete and utter chaos. In five seconds the station went from the normal hustle bustle of a Wednesday evening to complete and utter panic as smoke filled the room. As the fire alarm sounded people panicked rushing towards the exit, two men started fighting at the entrance holding up the rest of the crowd, as the crowd started yelling at each other other people started fighting causing chaos in the crowd. Atlas sat at the monitor watching the chaos unfold. Turning towards John he smirked,

“told you that paying those two men to start a fight at the entrance was a good idea” John shrugged,

“it was an unessary risk, we don’t know that these guys wont snitch”, Atals laughed,

“what two homeless bums, no ones going to care?” John turned back and looked like he was going to say something but decided better of it and simply grunted “do your job”. Atlas sighed and got back to the controls, after 30 secounds he turned back to John, “done” he said smirking, John rolled his eyes, Atlas was always showing off. So hack into the computer, soon we will be able to monitor any movment from any train station in Natufia, I've already messaged Ryan and James, they’ve already blown the bridge. Atlas nodded pulling a memory stick from the drive, together John and Atlas slipped out of the door and into the dark streets.

Dikikioyun, Natufian Nation

Tom couldn’t feel his arms, he was slumped on a tree watching the bodies of his team lying lifeless on the ground. The mission had been a disater and now his team was dead. Tom sighed, he could hear the sound of dogs barking in the distance and men yelling, he glanced down at Kevin who’s glaved eyes started up at him, accusingly. “He had a kid” Tom thought to himself, he pulled out a picture of his wife, she was seven months pregnant and waiting for him at home, he sighed, she would be fine, her family didn’t like him anyway, they would be secertly happy he was gone. He sighed, are well, at least the kid would be ok, they would be well looked after. The barks were getting louder, he pulled out his pistol looking at its markings, 12 notches, 12 missions completed, and now he was dead. He sighed, the dogs were close, he looked at the photo again, kissing it he put it close to his heart, brought the gun up to his head and pulled the trigger.

Natufian Skjoldurian bourder, 3 am in the morning

Vigor watched as the two men argued, the two captians had been at odds the the two units had merged on the way to the border. Both of them were egotistical and power hungry and neither liked the sharing the spotlight. At this moment in time they were arguing about which formation to take when marching in, something about what would look better to the locals. Vigor sighed personally he didn’t care that they were stopped in the middle of the road holding up trafic. He was just happy to be out of the stinky truck trapped with 50 sweaty men. He lied back to stare up at the sky and watched the flock of ravens that had been following them for the past two days, mabye the senced something?

Unknown Location
Snjall dragged his legs along the stone floor, he was approaching on 95 years old and he could barely stand without assistance. Normally a man his age and his condition would be at home sleeping and shitting their trousers, but not Snjall was not normal. He had dedicated his life to science and now he had the opportunity of a lifetime, no amount of pain and suffering would stop him from making the scientific discovery of the century. He reached the metal door and as always the guard stopped him and searched him. Snjall sighed, every time. Reaching the door he put his hand to the sensor, the machine whirred for a second and then a green light appeared. Snjall hid a smile. As he entered the room he was struck, as always about how black the room was. The room was empty except for a glass box in the middle of the room. In the box was a small single bed, lying on the bed was a small girl. As Snjall approached he felt like he did every time and overwhelming sense to run. He arrived at the box and knocked on the glass, the girl turned slowly and stared at him. She look completely normal, brown hair in pig tails and she was in a flowery dress. The only thing that was strange at her was her eyes, they were completely black. She smiled, "hello Snjall" she said in almost a transient way "we are friendly".

by **The Natufian Nation** » Sat Nov 13, 2021 8:30 am

Banner of the Emir of Harif

by **Conciliary Socialist Republics** » Thu Nov 18, 2021 5:18 am

The Soldier
Eastern Steppes, three days before the revolution, 19:00 local time

It had been over six hours since the company had initially stopped to check for directions, yet the column still moved through the steppe, kicking up high clouds of dust. The fuel gauges of the tanks now showed a dangerous level fuel. If the company wanted to move much further, they had to resupply. But unfortunately for them, they had used their last barrels of reserve fuel that had previously been strapped to the sides of their tanks. Behind them lay hundreds of kilometres of hard, dusty road. Halfway to their present position, the company had encountered the reconnaissance element, which consisted of a small number of light tanks and IFVs. The commander of the reconnaissance company, which was significantly understrength when compared to a regular company – only a pair of platoons, as opposed to the 3rd Company’s three platoons plus the command platoon. The commander of the reconnaissance element was a young and boisterous Senior Lieutenant, who’s whole person seemed to radiate endless energy. It was a stark contrast when compared to the tired and irritable Captain, though perhaps that was because the conditions the two men faced were vastly different.
But the rendezvous was long past. The reconnaissance element now rode ahead of the column, arranged into a neat line abreast. The light tanks seemed to blur with the huge dust clouds they were kicking up. Even in the IR spectrum, the light tanks were a misshapen blob, occluding any accurate attempt at identification or targeting. Karamazov knew that that blurring was part of the new “Zavesa” target profile reduction system, a suite of which had recently been installed on the light tanks in his regiment. Sadly, the sheer size and power of his breakthrough tanks meant that the system would be useless on them, even if the regiment had some kits to spare.
Suddenly, as it usually happens, a voice came over on the radio. It was Senior Lieutenant Baranov, commander of the light tanks. His voice, however, was unusually calm, especially for him. “Captain Karamazov, we’ve got dozens of contacts. All spectrums, possibly an entrenched enemy tank company with supporting infantry.” Karamazov guessed Baranov paused to look through his optics, before continuing “We noticed them as soon as we crossed the ridge, we’re pulling back and throwing up some smoke rounds onto it. The bastards are on the crest of the next ridge over.”
“Copy that Ivolga-1-1, we’re deploying to a line abreast.”
“All platoons, assume line of front pattern, 102nd, 103rd, 104th, keep back. 1st Platoon advance on my right, separation 500, 2nd Platoon advance ahead of me, distance ten, 3rd Platoon, hold left, 500.” Karamazov fired off directions to his subordinates, as well as the rest of the command platoon – telling his command car and two SPAAs to stay back from the fighting. “Platoons halt when in position, report when ready.” The tank column now seemed to split and form into a horizontal line, centring on the commander’s tank before rapidly coming to a halt.
“111 ready.” “121 ready.” “131 ready.” All platoons had reported in, it was time to begin the offensive. Adrenaline had begun to spread through the captain’s veins, as had always happened before combat – whether training or real. His thoughts became more focused, and vision narrowed to his display and optics, filtering everything else that was not useful to him. He drew a confident breath and bellowed into the radio set: “Company, advance to ridge and hold. Fire at any available target.” The tanks roared to life, engines screaming at their maximum RPM, as they crested the hill, before crashing into a thunderous decrescendo as the tanks assumed their hull down positions. Karamazov’s real work began. He swung his periscope around, noticing the enemy tanks perched on the opposing line of hills, tagging their positions and letting the computer spread the data between platoons for optimized firing solutions. Karamazov marked one target as a priority, and in the next second, the gunner had already laid his gun on target, and pressed hard on the firing pedal. The line had exploded almost simultaneously, as every tank opened on its designated target. “Company, fire and advance, maximum speed, let’s knock them over and don’t allow the infantry to get their heads up. Go. Go Go!!”
The tanks had roared once again, as the drivers kicked their steel beasts into overdrive. The vehicles rumbled down the hill, periodically emitting plumes of fire and smoke from their cannons. The ridgeline up ahead was coated in smoke and dust clouds, with bright spots indicating burning enemy tanks. So far, he seemed to have the upper hand, as his tanks surged forward, avoiding incoming fire through sheer shock of their assault. Karamazov suddenly heard a strange whir, a high-pitched noise similar to that of a power saw cutting through stone. It took him several seconds to realise that that was the noise of rapid-fire anti-aircraft guns emanating from his units SPAAs. He looked to his periscope again and swore. Long, bright streams of tracer ammunition seemed to flow through the darkening evening sky. Like bright whips, smashing the ridgeline into submission, kicking up even more dust than had previously been there.

“Excellent initiative Lieutenant Vernykh, keep their heads down while we scale the hills.” He yelled into his radio – even the excellent soundproofing of a modern battle tank couldn’t conceal the thunderous cannonade that was happening outside. The tanks had almost reached the crest of the hills in the forty or so seconds that had elapsed from the first salvo of his canons. Such was the reality of modern, fast paced war. Cresting over the hill, with smoke bellowing from their overworked engines, and streams of fire emerging from the overheating barrels, the tanks, like fire breathing dragons decimated the defensive position of the entrenched enemy. Dozens of replica tanks were burning, while a mock ammo dump cooked off with a flurry of explosions.
His comnet came alive: “Korobki, Korobki, this is Yastreb-100, request target designation for fire support.” Karamazov keyed his mic “Yastreb-100, this is Sosna-1-1 we have secured the ridge, fire support not necessary at this time.” Almost as soon as Karamazov had finished, another voice came on the net: “Yastreb-100 this is Ivolga-1-1 we have ID on enemy column possibly heading to reinforce, request strike on column.”
“Copy that Sosna, Ivolga, delivering strike on column. Also, don’t mind the Airborne boys, they’re deploying to a bridge just up ahead. They’ll be waiting for your tanks. Yastreb-100 out.”
With that, came the thundering roar of helicopter engine, as a dozen shark-like attack helicopters, arranged in a line abreast formation flew over the halted tanks. Karamazov took this stop as an opportunity to throw open his tank’s hatch and climb on top of it, surveying the outside with a pair of binoculars, while also admiring the flying “tanks”. Then, behind them, came the “flying IFVs”. Where the attack helicopters resembled sharks, these resembled a small whale that he had once seen at a marine park in Northern Slavacia. While not as lumbering as their bigger cousins: the transport helicopters, the gunship transports nonetheless weren’t small machines. The two dozen of them also buzzed the tanks position, before heading further in the direction of the main attack. To secure the bridges up ahead.

The Operator
Alexander sighed and slung his rifle back over his shoulder. They were too late. What was barely recognisable as wreckage of a once modern Roman fighter had already ceased burning. But worst of all, the pilot was gone. A group of tracks lead from a hastily hidden parachute. Captain Bodrov was setting up his radio, periodically swearing at the lack of signal. Alexander walked towards the wreckage, hoping to find anything useful. What appeared to be a fragment of the plane’s landing gear assembly piqued his interest. Taking his light backpack off, Alexander plopped down onto the bent gear leg and stretched out his legs. It didn’t take two seconds for Captain Bodrov to turn his angry gaze toward him and yell: “Put your ass in your hand and look for the black box. Look at him, thinks he’s on vacation.” As he turned away, the captain added a couple more less socially acceptable words describing in detail the ways he’d have coitus with Alexander’s mother. Alexander sighed again and stood up. It was hot. Very hot. He and another, the third member of the small squad, Lieutenant Polyakov slowly began combing through the wreckage, kicking over fragments to get a look down at them. They weren’t in their most hardworking mood. Then, just as Alexander fantasized about being back home in his comfortable apartments, kicking back and reading his favourite author Polyakov yelled. “Looks like we got it.”

Bodrov looked up from his still dead radio. “First bit of good news today Polyakov. Sviniyn, you’re our spec guy for this crap, go take a look.” Alexander sighed wearily and approached Polyakov. The flight data recorder was small, an orange box no more than the size of a briefcase. It was badly charred by the fuel flames, but text was still legible on the cracked paint. “VOLATI DATAE RECORDARI | NOLI PATEFACE”. It was it. However, for its size, the box was heavy. Encased in a thick steel jacket, the box probably weighed close to seven kilograms. If only I had a screwdriver. Alexander though longingly. But, with the sun only rising and Roman recovery parties more than likely on their way, Alexander had no choice. He dropped his backpack, and carefully placed the orange container inside the pack. Sighing, he zipped it up and heaved it onto his back. The bastard was heavy, easily ten kilograms.

Alexander swore under his breath and turned to Bodrov. “All good captain, we’re ready to move.”
Bodrov, seemingly had seemingly given up on using the radio, and was too, hastily packing the box into his rucksack. He turned to Alexander and nodded. “Charming. Alright, get your feet in your hands and let’s double time it to Oshala. There should be an extraction for us there.”

The Mercenary
“The “Red” Special Airwing had been a mercenary force, since before fighters had switched to jet engines. Created by a special order of the People’s Commissariat of National Defence of the FRS the service had always served Slavacia for clandestine and deniable operations, while taking on side orders from smaller nations and even private players, when these offers paid well and didn’t interfere with their main patron. The organisation grew over the decades, eventually getting themselves an old Slavic carrier and a pair of even older frigates. But they had found great utility in even this equipment. Many talented and otherwise useful men and women found their homes aboard the CV Independence (Ex-Admiral Sinyakov) and the small fleet that had gathered around the ship in recent years. People with an unclean record, on the run from authorities, those seeking an adventure, or just a good paycheck signed aboard at the port of Aleksandrovsk and left their old lives behind. The real rise for the Airwing however, came at the culmination of the Great Northern War. All of a sudden, empires crumbled, leaving new and rump states in their wake, hundreds of airbases becoming deserted. Warehouses abandoned. Under an enigmatic new leader, Red had amassed a small fortune from smuggling and acquiring supplies of the former Rusinan superpowers. The best was taken for themselves, while all other matter of goods were sold off to the highest bidder. Red had experienced its greatest soar in capability since its creation. Equipped with the newest Rusinan fighter jets, newest radio electronics and even WMD capability, Red for the first time became a force that could challenge a nation. They had even begun to expand their global network, setting up a small operating post in … To fuel and supply their emergent war machine, Red had purchased a large coastal plot of land in Aleksandrovsk, setting up a small naval base. It had everything that a naval base ought to have: quays, a small drydock for fixing and repairing small vessels; an airbase with a dozen hangars; a housing compound for the permanent staff of the base to live; guards, barracks for said guards along with an Armory and training areas for Red’s emerging ground forces. However, almost all of this was overshadowed by the crowning achievement of the mercenary company. A small, but operational aircraft parts factory. Using the latest manufacturing equipment bought or looted from the Rusinan continent, Red had been able to set up a number of parts production lines, greatly expanding their air arm and capability in servicing that air arm.” - ‘Mercenaries, Pirates and other Armed NGOs”, VoyenPress, Petrograd 2023’

CV Independence
Alexander Lucius ordered his usual breakfast. Coffee, black, extra hot. Three eggs, fried, sunny side up with a side of lamb cutlets. The morning paper, still warm from the printer. A glass of milk. He sat at his usual spot in the cafeteria, a corner booth next to a flatscreen panel that tried its best to imitate a pleasant ocean vista. But its dinginess and flickering created no illusion – the cafeteria was nowhere near an opening in the hull, being tucked away inside the giant lumbering vessel. The former officer’s mess, now turned into a bar and cafe, wasn’t particularly pretty. The walls were a dull metallic grey, and in a couple of spots, tinged with the rouge of rust. But Alexander found it nicer than the free crew mess, which was noisy, crowded and smelt too much like a plebeian bath. He didn’t consider himself to be a snob, but he found the pursuits of the vast majority of the ship’s crew, for whom the word “band” may have been more appropriate to be vulgar and uncultured. Lucius was the ship’s Chief Flight Operations Officer – had he wanted to, he could have breakfast brought up to his quarters, but yet again, he found them cramped and uncomfortable. Slavs really don’t have any sense in ship building. Or regular building. Or anything aesthetic.
Lucius had begun his career as a fighter-bomber pilot in the Imperial Roman Navy. His family, while not particularly wealthy, nonetheless promised him a stellar career. Lucius’ great-grandfather was personally awarded by the then Caesar, for saving his life. But his rival, a man from a senatorial family, who had fashioned himself a naval officer had other ideas. Antonius Carius was a terrible sailor and an even worse pilot. By all metrics, Lucius should have beaten him in the competition for the ship’s new Chief of Flight Operations. However, Antonius’ connections in the Praetorian guard altered a couple of lines in a treason dossier and before Alexander could say “Ave” he was booted off his carrier, dishonourably discharged, and barred from ever flying any form of aircraft in Rome again. He saw Carius’ smug face as the man sat on Lucius’s very own tribunal and listened to the man deliver a speech praising the leniency and wisdom of the Roman judicial system, which had saved Lucius’s freedom and life. Little good that did him. He never returned to his familial home, instead choosing to disappear to the far corners of the world: working as a commercial pilot in Valyrien, smuggling refugees across the border into Myraxia, supplying Markovist guerrillas in Alexandrovsk. As long as the job paid well – he took it. Alexander didn’t quite remember how he ended up on the Independence. It was in the wake of the Rusinan collapse, he was staying at a dingy sea-side motel in a god forsaken corner of the world, somewhere along the wild coastlines of the North Covenant when he received a call on his cell phone. With his former employers in Rusina either vaporized or turned into decaying radioactive corpses, work had been slim that winter. The man on the line introduced himself as “Ricardo de Espinoza”. An Asgarthian. No one else would take a name influenced by the “Three Bandidos”, a terrible TV show for degenerate people. But Asgarthians seemed to like it. In Lucius’ view that had said everything about their character that he needed to know. Yet still, he made a conscious effort to be nice to the late caller:
“Good time of day Mr Espinoza, how may a simple cargo pilot help you.”
"As good as can be expected, Mr Espinoza. How many I be of service today?" Lucius voice gave out a tiredness that wasn’t just caused by lack of sleep.
"I have read about your exploits in the jungles of Alexandrovsk. Interesting methods. Am I correct in the information that you were slated to become a carrier flight operations director? Or is my intel wrong?”
Lucius frowned, all information regarding his service in the Imperial Navy was classified. Not unobtainable but classified. "What's the job?" he asked after a long and tense pause.
"Well, before I answer that, how familiar are you with the Grâstahl JJ-3 of the former Valyrien Airforce"
"If it has at least one wing and an engine, I can fly it." Lucius was bending the truth a little. Sure he was familiar with the specs and the aircraft, reading many a Roman intelligence brochure about the military capabilities of the Northern superpowers, even witnessing several in a routine patrol flight. He had never actually flown one though.
"Well can't promise you flying, but how would you like to command two full squadrons of those, a squadron of Slavacian fighters and a dozen or so helicopters?"
Every single instinct told Lucius that this was too good to be true, that he should hang up, before a Valyrien counterintelligence team burst through his doors. But there was no Valyrien counterintelligence. At least not anymore. "How much?"
"Well, we're a tad short on money at the moment. How does 15,000 denarii in gold equivalent per month sound? Of course, can't promise it every month, and might have to pay it in Slavic Rubles some days"
“Twenty-five.”
“Wages are nonnegotiable, good luck with your Valyrien employers Mr Lucius. Maybe some of them need a lift to skin graft surgery. Who knows?”
Lucius swore quietly. He paused. Swallowed. And finally replied: “Fine, you have yourself a squad commander.”
"Excellent, make your way to Alexandrovsk. You won't miss us there."
He had no idea why that particular memory had come up during today’s breakfast. And even less of an idea who Espinoza was. Sure, he guessed that the man must have been a bigwig in Asgarthia before the war, but who exactly? A high-ranking administrator? An air force general?
While Lucius was deep in his thoughts, the machinery of the carrier had already turned it on a south-westerly heading, carrying him and thousands of other souls on board towards the unforgiving Natufian steppes.

PLACEHOLDER - MORE TO COME
Specifically: Slavic counterintelligence in Oshala, Supreme Soviet response,

by **The Natufian Nation** » Sun Nov 21, 2021 2:02 pm

by **The Natufian Nation** » Sat Dec 04, 2021 8:24 am

by **Conciliary Socialist Republics** » Mon Dec 06, 2021 2:42 am

The Officer
The wheels of the passenger jet smoothly impacted the dark asphalt surface of the runway. With a roar, the engines switched to reverse thrust decelerated the plane. A mundane event had it happened in other circumstances, but it was far less mundane given the situation of the arrival. The aircraft was met with by a rather large party of people, all cheering and wearing red items of clothing. After all, this was the first envoy of Slavacia to officially arrive on the soil of the emergent NSSR. A dozen or so people disembarked: journalists, news crews, advisors on economy and civilian matters. Last among them was Chizhov. He was dressed in a simple two-piece suit of a beige colour, with a standard white shirt that almost all men of his profession wore regardless of the time of day or the weather outside. He clutched a small black suitcase in his hand as he descended the stairs from his aircraft, peering intently into the mass of vehicles that had arrived to greet the party. Noticing a black sedan out towards the side of the congregation, he smiled before reaching the bottom of the stairs. Politely pushing past the crowd, he approached the black vehicle and smiled to the driver.

“Rezno?” he asked

The driver nodded, not saying much else. He took the suitcase from Chizhov’s hands and placed it in the trunk of the car, before opening the rear door of the sedan and gesturing for Vasiliy to enter. Chizhov complied, happily setting down in the back seat, and taking out a well-worn book from his jacket, some ancient Achean philosophy text. The black sedan pulled away fast, almost drifting into a turn.

“Like the wind, eh?” Chizhov asked his driver. The man nodded in reply.

“So, catch the Strei-Ar league last night?” Chizhov asked, trying to break the silent pause. His driver, a handsome young man with a small scar on his cheek. Chizhov had noticed that scar the second he saw the man, but then again, it was his profession to notice things. The man’s skin was a tone lighter than the average Natufian, but after all, where there really that few Natufians that one could generalise all?

“Yes comrade, got the tail end of the N. Metalurg – Sirtárva F.C. Good game.”

Something about the manner in which the young man pronounced the word “Tovarish (comrade)” seemed off to Chizhov. Too perfect. Too Slavic.

“Да уж точно, Петлюков – сила!” The reaction of the driver threw Chizhov off – if the man indeed spoke Slavic, he managed to hide it well.

“Excuse me, Colonel?”

“Sorry, force of habit.”

The car sped through the narrow streets of the outer city. The architecture seemed exotic to the Colonel. But Chizov admitted to himself, that anything other than the 17th century baroque of downtown Novosergeevsk and the modern Socialist styles seemed exotic and foreign. Clay dwellings almost jumped on each other, how closely they were spaced. The streets seemed claustrophobic to the Colonel, even narrower then the streets of the old quarter of some of the older imperial cities, and positively dwarfed by the wide modern Concilian avenues and boulevards.

“This is Natufia? I'd assumed your cities were a bit more urban?”

"Only in the north, colonel. Not much investment came our way."

"Huh, well we'll change that up won't we"

"We'll see, Colonel, we'll see"

"Let's keep it simple, no need for colonels, eh?"

"As you say, Vasiliy Pavlovich." Again, that twinge of near perfect Southern Slavic. If the colonel wasn’t sure of it, the man sitting in the driver seat could well have been the resident of Petrograd.

"I wasn't aware Slavic was taught in Natufia, I guess our cultural exchange programs were something." He complimented, "Your pronunciation is perfect though, hats off to your professor"

The driver winced, making an effort however to hide his expression from the man in the rear seat of his car.

"A gift, Vasiliy Pavlovich, I'm a natural impressionist, you should hear my Skjoldurian fishwife."

The scenery outside had changed. Gone were the packed streets. The view outside his window now resembled an industrial suburb. Long concrete fences; rusted barbed wire, the dull grey broken by the occasional advertisement for a Roman beverage company.

"I'll be delighted to. Once I found out where it is you're taking me."

"Your contact is waiting to meet you in a secure location. We'll be there soon."

Chizhov shrugged – secure location, then secure location. He picked up the tome of Achaean he had tossed aside and continued reading.
…
The car slowed and pulled up to a warehouse. To the Colonel, the place looked well and trully abandoned. Guess Rezno knows best.

The driver exited the car, and courteously opened the door to Chizhov. The latter put away his book, stepped out of the car, and turned to the man.

“Here? Shall I take my belongings with me?”

"No need, they'll be forwarded to your hotel."

"Ah very well. Now, no need to keep Rezno waiting then."

Rezno followed the driver into the dilapidated warehouse, up the worn concrete staircaseand through a rusty door, creaking on it hinges. The warehouse was empty and dark. Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, Chizhov saw three men: the first, a bald, thickset man; the second, a smaller man sitting behind a set of classically Roman computers; and the third, a dark-haired man sitting in the middle of the three. Chizhov couldn’t quite pinpoint his age but guessed that he must have been not much older than thirty. He was dressed oddly, in a set of strange armour. It was definitely not Slavacian, experiments with segmented ceramic armour never went past prototype stages in most militaries. HISS the colonel thought to himself Of course, Romans.

"Ahh comrades, good to see you all, as you know, I'm Colonel Chizhov, Army Press Service. Where's Rezno? I was hoping to speak with him." He said, while he frantically thought to himself Where did I blunder? Surely Rezno would have thought to use a secure line. Not forgetting to flash his most sincere and well-meaning smile.

The well armoured man sighed at that remark, and Chizhiov felt the click of a pistol’s hammer being cocked directly behind him.

"What is the meaning of this? I'm but a simple journalist!?" Chizhov decided, that it was best he hide his cards. Playing a bad MGB agent was always a talent of his.

"Of course, you are, Comrade, I suppose you won't mind us verifying that?" while the armoured man delivered the remark, full of biting irony, the thick man approached Chizhov and gruffly frisked him, but not before forcefully sitting him down on a rickety wooden chair, while the smaller one rose from behind his technological shrine and carefully studied Chizhov with a handheld scanner, carefully taking his retinal print.

The man in charge looked at his assistant with curiosity: “Any matches?” – "The signal jammers we placed are interfering with my connection to the central database...it might be a while"

The heavier of the two men meanwhile, finished going through Chizhov’s pockets, and produced out of them: a smartphone, a set of keys on an ornate keychain depicting the Concilian capital; a wallet with a driver’s license and several tens of Rubles in cash and a few plastic cash cards. He handed the plastic ID card to the man behind Chizhov, who had previously remained outside of his view. He was a handsome enough man, with the refined movements and manners of a patrician from an old family.

The man took a look at the license: “Vasiliy Pavlocich Chizhov, at least that’s what the license says anyway.”

The man in charge held out his hand, and the handsome man threw it to him. He held it in his hands, bending the plastic before asking: “Is it real?”

“I’ve seen enough fake ones to know the difference” the new man replied lazily, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture.

"It checks out." affirmed the small man from his computer, evidently his database search had brought something up. That was bad, Chizhov thought Where in the hell did, we leak a database.

He continued, with his words sending a cold shiver down Chziov’s back:

“Colonel Chizhov, Deputy Head of the Roman Department of the 2nd Directorate (COINT) of the Ministry of State Security of the Union of the Concilian Socialist Republic”

The armoured man whistled sarcastically: “Some newspaper.”

Now it was Chizhov’s turn to bite back A dumb cover is better than no cover: “Well I do run the department wall paper, so it’s something. And I am a published author. In narrow, professional circles.”

"Fascinating, it doesn't really explain why a MGB Deputy Department Head is in my city though does it?"

“Your city? What are you? The mayor? And these are your electorate?” Chizhov replied, adding just a touch more daring to his voice to sell his story. I think they’ve bought it, but we definitely need to find the rat in our department. To believe that someone leaked possibly the entire personnel database. Dammit, we’re stretched thin as it is trying to set up an operational group here, but we definitely need to look into this back home.

"What I am is of no concern to you, Colonel Chizov. What should be concerning is what I'm going to have to do with you..."

“Is that a threat? If something is to happen to me, I’m sure that my government would be very invested in this situation, and will most definitely respond accordingly.”

The handsome man behind the Colonel laughed: "Respond to whom? You were seen being escorted away by the Red Horn movement, no one even know's we're in this shit city"

“Yes, and if Rezno swears that he hasn’t seen me. Which he hasn’t, the two won’t be too difficult to connect, then, my death will be quite obvious won’t it…”

Chizhov suddenly felt the blade of a knife at his throat: "There are far worse things in this world than death, Slavacian"

This voice was different, more predatory and colder than a Skjolduran winter. Unknown to Chizhov anyway, but he did notice that the man leading the interrogation so far looked shocked by the new arrival.

“Well, if you’re going to threaten me like an amateur, at least have the decency to show your face like a professional.”

Chizhov suddenly felt a fist land beneath his left ribs, the pain sending him reeling, but the knife keeping him upright.

“Leave him” the armoured man commanded.

Chizhov felt now, was the appropriate time for a heated response. "Listen, are you a professional or not? Want to play these games? Wear a mask or sit me with a lamp in my face."

The voice behind him laughed, though this laugh was cold, like the voice, without a hint of amusement. A dead man’s laugh.

"If you're done with cheap theatrics, can we skip to the boring discussion? I have a job to do."

"I look forward to ending this one" said the voice behind him and lowered the knife.

Overcoming his temptation to turn around, Chizhov looked dead ahead, eyes locked at the pupils of the man in the armour. This seemed to ease the head praetorian, as he slacked somewhat.

"I'm guessing Mr Nemo back there likes to hide his face?" The armoured man snorted, while the other two seemed to pale with shock. "Lucky for me, I have a camera in the back of my head"

"You don't know the half of it, Colonel..."

"Anyway, while I'm sure I’d love to chat over a cup of coffee, what exactly am I here for.”

Finally given a chance to look around, Chizhov noticed a vodka glass sitting on a small table next to him. He grimaced.

“Really? That stereotypical? You couldn’t have brought cognac?

"Why waste good liquor on a MGB spy?" the praetorian retorted, but not without a hint of humour in his voice. He straightened himself, and the humour seemed to drain from his eyes: "You are here because I wanted to see what the MGB was pitting me against and I'm sorry to admit that I'm a little disappointed."

"What were you expecting? A gun wielding super spy?" Chizhov retorted, a little rough, he thought, but better that than the truth.

The praetorian stared at Chizhov for a moment, before breaking out into a genuine laugh:"I'll admit, me and my countrymen have a flair for the dramatic."

"A flair?!" Chizhov broke his monotone for the first time since the start of the conversation: "With a 'flair' like that you wouldn't be out of place in a Petrograd circus!"

Still laughing, the praetorian retorted: "The MGB...so dull, so boring, more bureaucrat than agent these days." He waved dismissively, not letting Chizhov respond, "We'll skip your retort, I'm sure it was very droll, Colonel."

You're truly here because I wish to inform you that me and my subordinates have no intention of quitting Oshala. In fact, we intend to remain and make the 'Red Horn's' lives rather difficult." The man leaned forward; all humour gone from him again: "I also want to know what you intend to do about that.”

"I intend to collect materials on the democratic processes observed here, they'd make a great topic for a dissertation." Said Chizhov, calmy enunciating each word as if a well learned speech. “And my job.”

"Which is?...aside from reading Aelius Sejanus's shopping lists, obviously"

“To advise the friendly government on state security operations.” he continued, not letting the Roman interject"I do have to thank you immensely for that second part. Here I was, thinking that I'd have to track you down, identify you using shreds of evidence. Yet you showed me your faces right from the get-go. Not very professional you know?"

"I think you misunderstand what kind of outfit we are, Colonel"
"Well clearly not intelligence I gather."

"Well, who doesn't enjoy a bit of multitasking." Replied the Roman, quickly glancing aside to his tech aide, who gave him a big thumbs up. "Although, let me assure you Vasilly, we are very much professionals, don't worry about that."

"Yes, I can tell, though I'd use the word 'operatives'. I've always envied those who know their way around a fight. I prefer tennis myself."

"You know what they say Vasily, there's nothing like on the job learning."

"Alas, I belive that I'm incapable in that field."Chizhov replied, with genuine regret, "But, you seem to be well acquainted with me, tell me a bit about yourself?"

The whole group laughed, with the armoured man summarising the question on everyone’s lips: "Has that ever worked?"

"Once or twice, Well, I guess it’s your turn to ask: what do you want from me."

The Roman drummed his hands on his table before responding: “I suppose getting out of the city is not on the table?”

"No Mr Mayor, I'm afraid not"

The Roman drummed his fingers a couple more times, before sighing, and standing up. "Before we go, I want to extend you a little offer."

"Mm?"

"In exchange for your own life, I'd like a guarantee that should any of my men be captured alive, and that's a very big should, you'll have then extradited home."

"I'll do all that is in my hands. No guarantee they won't be sent to Slavacia for questioning first. But I give you the word of an officer."

The Roman inclined his head, “I’ll accept that.”

The cold voice behind Vasiliy snorted.

“Mr Nemo, if you have something to say I'm listening.”

"I guarantee you nothing except that no one will find your corpse should we meet again, Slavacian."

“Enough” said the head man, his remark echoing through the large and silent warehouse.

"Now Vasiliy, we obviously can't just leave you here so." He reached into a pouch on his belt and produced a small pill bottle: “you can either take this, and be treated to a few hours of, what I assume is desperately needed, sleep, or....” he gestured to the large man, who cracked his knucles with an animalistic grin on his face “My colleague here will crack you round the head with a punch.”

Chizhov shrugged and reached for the pill bottle, swallowing a small tablet before everything went dark.

by **The Natufian Nation** » Sat Dec 11, 2021 9:10 am

Royal villa of Prince Octavius Nero. North of Colirida in the Natufian Nation. Night.

by **The Natufian Nation** » Sat Jan 28, 2023 10:38 am

EPILOGUE

Raffa, suburb of New Jericho, Auroch year 5162 (78 years in the future)

A loud din of incoherent young voices filled the hallways of Golan Elementary School, filled with the noise of metal lockers slamming shut, kids increasingly raising their voices to be heard by their friends, and the shout of adult voices hurrying the young ones along to their next class.

Slowly, about twenty-five juveniles filled into Mrs. Fahima Ziyad’s history classroom, taking their seats at their laminated faux-wood desktops, plugging in laptops and school-issued PLDs (personal learning devices), and checking their digital wristbands for messages from friends as they settled in. Momentarily, a synthetic bell rang through the school’s wireless communication posts, announcing the beginning of the class.

Mrs. Ziyad rose from her front desk where she had been reviewing her lesson plan. She beamed a gregarious smile at the kids and greeted them, “Well good morning class! And Hail Caesar!”, raising her right arm in salute and pivoting on her left ankle to face the corner of the room near the door where a wall-mounted flag of the Natufian Nation rested alongside the flag of the Roman Imperium. Flanking the Roman flag was a portrait of Caesar Octavius Arius, great-grandson of the infamous Caesar Octavius Gemellus, and to the side of the Natufian flag was a portrait of Consular High Chief Reginald an-Natuf du Plantagenet, the office of proconsul and the position of High Chief having been merged into one title upon the death of Reg’s mother, the long-lived and well-loved High Chieftess Dimra an-Natuf, some twelve years prior.

After a loud “Hail Caesar!” by the class, having risen from their seats, Mrs. Ziyad beckoned her pupils to sit back down.

“Well, class, I hope you have watched your info-vids for the day as we will be finishing up our discussion on that most terrible time in our nation’s history, known as the War of the Weeping Aurochs. We covered the causes of the war, the factions, the major battles and events, and now its time to make sure we understand the end and aftermath. So, let’s start with the Consortium. Who would like to tell us how their little charade ended?”

A young girl enthusiastically pushed the “raise hand” button on her PLD and a yellow light at the end of her desk illuminated. Mrs. Ziyad turned to her, an overly thrilled look on her face,

“Yes, Miriam, would you like to share your learning?”

The lass rose from her seat and stated matter-of-factly, “The Consortium knew they were not strong enough to resist the Imperium so they elected Geoffrey Plantagenet of Heartfilia, Duke of Anjou, to be the Prince of Jeddah. They hoped he would bring in his Heartfilian forces in Anjou because Queen Marie refused to get involved.”

“That’s right!”, Mrs. Ziyad exclaimed, “And how did the Proconsul and High Chief react?”

The girl didn’t miss a beat, “They said a Prince of Jeddah was an illegal title, but they would acknowledge the area around Jeddah City as a Natufian principality if he would agree to marry the High Chief’s daughter and administer the area as part of the Commonwealth. Dimra al-Shuqba resisted for a long time but was eventually won over by Geoffrey’s music.”, she paused and then added with unguarded awe, “He played the tenor lute!”

“Yes,” the teacher inserted, “remember class, that Dimra and Geoffrey were patrons of Natufian art and culture. Most of the magnificent civic buildings here in the capital were personally designed by her! She also agreed to marry for practical reasons, but you’ll learn more about that later. So, Miriam, where did that leave the Consortium?”

“Well, the info-vid said they had to disband after that. There was something called the Reconciliation of Jeddah.”

“That‘s right, Miriam, because the Consortium never actually raised arms against the Commonwealth, they were allowed to peacefully dissolve. And what happened to their leader, Petra Krisik?”

“I think her family owned a big business she went back to, but she also was Geoffrey’s local economic and finance advisor for Jeddah.”

“Exactly! Class, this a great example of how the Proconsul and High Chief, remember they were two separate people back then, were able to solve the crisis diplomatically. Anything else you want to add, Miriam?”

The young girl blushed and looked around the class apprehensively, her girlfriends urging her on. “Well….on the info-vid…..I think the Duke looked really cute!”

Laughter and giggling erupted from the other girls in the class, and Mrs. Ziyad smiled tolerantly and nodded as if in agreement, but she said nothing.

Jeddah City is the cultural and prosperous economic heart of the Natufian Nation

Then Mrs. Ziyad’s face then turned sour, “But we cannot say the same for Chief Masum Goblecki’s rebellion, can we? Remember, we learned that Masum tried to get the southern area to become a Jarldom of Skjoldur, with himself as Jarl! Who wants to tell us how that turned out?”

A number of yellow lights lit up, mostly among the rowdier boys in the class.

“Yes, Hakim?” Mrs. Ziyad called out.

A dark brown skinned boy with narrow eyes and scuff marks on his arms stood, “Well, the campaign against Masum was considered one of the bloodiest. Masum started strong, sieging Prince Nero’s palace, attacking Doha and he almost captured the capital!”

“And why did he not succeed, Hakim?”, Mrs. Ziyad probed.

“Well, a couple reasons, I think. First, the Joshua’s Town massacre cost him a lot of his senior officers and an entire division of soldiers. It was a huge blow from Chief Wassab and Chieftess Aygul who he thought were allies. But also, he was counting on support from Jarl Harold Harolddson of the Black Bear clan to back him. But there was a civil war in Skjoldur at the same time, and Harold withdrew his support to fight for his own survival.”

“And how did that turn out?”

“Dustbin of history!” the youth replied cheekily but then returned to a more serious tone. “Ahem, I mean the Skjoldurian civil war collapsed their nation. None of the Jarldoms survived and even now are just a loose collection of disorganized clans.”

“Yes, so what happened to Masum?”

“Well, he couldn’t capture New Jericho and he retreated from Doha when Prince Geoffrey began attacking from Jeddah.” His eyes then got wider when talking about the next part, “And then General Aemilianus, the Bear General, moved in! He fought and liberated Nero’s villa and then marched south. With Doha and New Jericho secure, he met Masum’s army outside Masum’s stronghold in Ras Kheeseb.”

“Indeed! That was the Battle of Ras Kheeseb, if you will all remember. It’s still a holiday in that part of the nation, by the way. So, Hakim, what happened during the battle?”

“Oh, Mrs. Ziyad, my grandfather was there! He served in the 3rd Natufian airborne and told me about it. Masum still had superior air defense from equipment he got from Harold so General Aemilianus was forced to rely mostly on his land units. It was the rainy season so both sides couldn’t use their armored vehicles like tanks and stuff effectively except to shore up defensive positions. The ground was really muddy. They fired artillery at each other for five days straight before Aemilianis tried to advance and surround Ras Kheeseb. But Masum kept moving out his flanks preventing that. That’s when my grandfather’s unit was called in. He said they got over Masum’s anti-air and dropped down between Masum’s position and Ras Kheeseb, cutting him off when General Aemilianus made his big push, backed by the Natufian militia from the loyal Nahal and Alber regions. My grandfather said he even saw the Bear General on the field with his own eyes! Masum eventually broke through the rear and retreated to the city where fighting took place for another week with Armilianus pushing relentlessly.”

“Yes, and how did the battle end, Hakim?”

“Victory for the Bear General!! Masum was killed in battle. The info-vid says a Roman sniper got him….but…”

“Yes?”

“Well, my grandfather says he was shot by one of his own men, because he wouldn’t surrender even when it was clear they were doomed.”

“Well, class, here we see some of the ambiguities of history. But, let’s stick to the official story for testing purposes, shall we?”, the instructor pleasantly extolled. She then went on,
“With Masum dead, his army immediately surrendered and were sent to Roman POW camps, ending the Masum insurrection. Ras Kheeseb had been heavily shelled and Masum’s compound destroyed by a missile strike. The city was in ruins be the fighting. It was one of the main focus points of the Roman reconstruction efforts after the war, but you’ll learn more about that next year. For now, let’s shift to the Red Horn occupation of the Baidha lands around Oshala. Who wants to tell us how that ended?”

A Masum militaman surveys the ruins of Ras Kheeseb just prior to surrender

There was a delay but eventually a bookish young boy activated his call light.

“Ah, yes, Malik?”

The boy gave a ponderous, unfocused look forward just past Mrs. Ziyad. “Well….I think there were lots of things that went wrong for the Red Horn….it’s hard to put it all together.”

Mrs. Ziyak gave Malik a patient smile, “Yes, indeed! Aside from the fact they promoted an abhorrent ideology. But what did you learn, specifically, Malik?”

“Well, Renzo Ikstafen and the Red Horn were kind of depending on support from the UCSR, right?”

The teacher nodded slowly, “Yes, that’s right. We don’t actually know how much the UCSR, or rather, parts of the ruling Party, directly helped Renzo overthrow Chief Tubak and take control of the Baidha lands, but there were two main reasons they pulled their support. What were they?”

Malik’s eyes screwed in concentration as he studied his desk, then gave an uncertain look, “They didn’t want to fight the Romans?”

Mrs. Ziyak crooked her head to the side, “Well…not exactly. There may have been some discussion around terms of the conflict, we don’t know much about that. But what happened to Chief Tubak? Do you remember?”

“Oh yeah!” Malik replied, his eyes lighting up, “He was killed by Renzo or one of his lieutenants. His whole family was killed!”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Ziyak replied, “It was a bloody massacre of innocents and it cost him support of many members of the Politburo in the UCSR. But the second thing, this was about the time of the Great Renewal inside the UCSR when they concentrated on internal affairs and mostly withdrew from the world stage for a time. It was a huge loss for Renzo and the Red Horn. But what happened then?”

Malik sat forward in his seat again, “They were attacked….but I’m confused by who”

“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Ziyak began, “It was two sided. The Bear General, having defeated Chief Masum, continued his campaign East into the Baidha lands, engaging a retreating Red Horn in numerous skirmishes. But don’t forget, the odd coming together of Tubak’s son, Saham Baidhae Commodus, the downed Natufian fighter pilot, Captain Beatrice Cataluk, and Roman PI operatives present in Oshala, waged a crippling sabotage campaign deep inside Red Horn territory. Within a few short months, the Red Horn was wiped out, praise the Great Aurochs, and what happened to Renzo?”

This time Hakim, not Malik, chimed in, bypassing his call button, “Executed!”

Mrs. Ziyak shot him a stern, but permissive look, “I prefer you to use your call light, Hakim, but you are correct. Renzo was crucified by the Bear General when he captured Oshala, set in the public square as an example. His remains were not allowed to be taken down for a full month. By that time, pieces of his corpse were falling apart, anyway. Justice had finally come for Commodus, who took over his father’s role as governor of the Baidha as a true friend of the Imperium.”

Red Horn soldiers surrender in the face of the onslaught of Roman forces, supported by widespread sabotage internally

She paused and looked over the class, smiling. “Ok, so lastly, Harif and Emir Hazat Naseem. We learned that the Emir tried to take advantage of the conflicts in other parts of the Commonwealth, although never actually declaring his autonomy. Crafty devil. Who can tell me what became of Harif and the Emir?”

A young girl, with Natufian dark hair and skin but Roman facial features reach forward and activated her call light.

Mrs. Ziyak turned towards her, “Ah, yes, Nerea, I believe your grandfather was a Roman airman in the Harif campaign, wasn’t he?”

The girl sat up proudly and replied in a more formal tone, “You are correct, Mrs. Ziyak. My grandfather was a pilot in the air raid of the 12th day of the Reaping Moon. The day Roman wrath was unleashed on Masraq and the Emir’s palace burned to the ground!” she ended with a maniacally look in her eyes.

Mrs. Ziyak gave a slow, cautious nod to Nerea before interjecting, “Absolutely. Remember class, the Emir had already been betrayed by two allies he was depending on, the Arcovians and then Aexorouwyth. The discovery of oil in Western Harif by the Aexo made it impossible for the Council of Elders to tolerate any further pretense of autonomy they usually gave to the Emir. The Roman show of force essentially forced the Emir to choose his fate. And what did we choose to do, Nerea?”

Nerea pouted her lips and said disdainfully, “He took the coward’s way out. He wouldn’t fight.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Ziyak replied, “Besides losing some defensive skirmishes in the mountains west of the city, the raid on Masraq made it clear the Emir had no real chance of winning an armed conflict. The Emir capitulated and was brought to trial for sedition. But because he didn’t actually make any proclamations of independence, and did not initiate any violent actions against the Commonwealth, the High Chief decided to strip him of his titles, remove him from power, and bar him from holding any public office. Harif was then fully incorporated as a regular province of the Commonwealth, no longer enjoying its special status.”

“Weak”, replied Nerea, crossing her arms.

“Not really,” Mrs. Ziyak retorted, “The High Chief was playing to the political reality. The Emir was still very popular in Harif and anything more could easily have set off the sheiks who supported him and whom Benjamin al-Shuqba needed loyalty from lest another civil war break out. To be sure, it was much more lenient than what Proconsul Titianus wanted. It was a rare time the two men had a heated disagreement, according to the records. So the Emir, well, at that point no longer an Emir, just a private citizen, lived the rest of his life on his family estate under house arrest. Apparently, bitterness and depression wore him down and he never really recovered, mentally.”

Nerea raised an eyebrow but said nothing more.

“Of course,” Mrs. Ziyak continued, “the conflict did generate one of Natufia’s greatest poets and folk song writers, Nadir of Nizwa. I think you all have studied his works in your literature class. After seeing the savagery of the battles in the western mountains, and his family killed in the Masraq raid, after the war, Nadir left on his famous horse, Lapis, following the tracks of the old Glass Rail to Cenatrailis and then beyond, wandering the world, writing and composing songs. He finally returned to Natufia during Dimra an-Natuf’s great Natufian Renaissance movement.

Interestingly, Nadir’s cousin, Radha, rescued a lost Roman pilot and returned him to safety, having saved him from a rattlesnake bite. As a reward, he adopted her into his household where she eventually became an acolyte at the Temple of Minerva. Just a little tidbit of history that doesn’t often make it into the info-vids.”

Eastern wing of the Emir's palace in Masraq suffering damage from a Roman air raid

A Roman bomber, officially suffering a technical failure, crashed in the Harif desert. It's pilot, Major Crassius Dolomius, was saved by Nadir of Nizwa's shaman cousin, Radha

Half the class nodded knowingly while the other half was clearly losing interest. Mrs. Ziyak appraised the class and then dimmed the lights, powering up the holo-projector in the front of the room. “Finally, class, I wanted to show you Benjamin al-Shuqba’s Reform Address, given shortly after the end of the War of the Weeping Aurochs. It was at this moment the trajectory of our nation changed, for the better, of course, to give us the peace and unity we have enjoyed through today.

projection begins

A grainy tri-color projection emerges of a podium with a 40-something nut-colored Natufian man standing behind it in the ceremonial Auroch-skin robe of the office of High Chief. This is, of course, Benjamin al-Shuqba. Behind him stands an older, white-haired man in an official Roman toga, Proconsul Cincius Titianus. Also close by is a tall, young woman in her early 20s with wavy dark hair, Dimra al-Shuqba and at her side a younger man in garish attire and a sash proclaiming his Heartfilian nobility status, Geoffrey Plantagenet du Heartfilia, Duke of Anjou. Scattered amongst them in the background are an additional half-dozen Elders.

“My friends, my countrymen, I am happy to say the crisis that has brought so much suffering and heartache to our proud nation has passed! Over the past year, the solidarity of the Natufian Nation has been challenged by existential threats to our integrity as a unified nation, a vision our forefathers fought for and to which my uncle, may the ancestors keep him, devoted his life. A cause to which I, as your High Chief, am also committed.

We have emerged from this crisis stronger and with renewed determination to preserve our united Commonwealth and resist those who would undo what we have accomplished in past couple of generations.

But, my friends, we must recognize that the root of the crisis we just passed, and the fighting that cost too many good Natufian and Roman lives and caused incalculable damage to our cities and industry, lies in the institutional structures which no longer serves to unite us, but is a source to divide us. Therefore, in consultation with proconsul Titianus, and with the approval of the Council of Elders, I am hereby announcing a restructuring of how our government functions, to better align with the needs to preserve our unity.

First, the Natufian Nation has always relied on a trained militia to answer the occasional call to arms instead of a standing army. These militia have been under the auspices of the local chieftains. I am enacting a decree to federalize all militia and issuing an order to establish a standing professional Natufian army and air corp. We will now also allow the establishment of Roman military bases and airfields where our joint forces will train together and stand ready to counter any threat to our national unity, internal or external.

Secondly, we must recognize that in our modern nation, looking to stand shoulder to shoulder with the other nations of the world, our tribal system of government just does not make sense anymore. Yes, I know we all want to honor our tribal heritage and ancestors, that will not be denied. But the reality is we are a wandering people, intermixing across the Commonwealth, the Imperium, and the wider world. We are all Natufians, first and foremost, and henceforth, instead of government being delineated by tribal affiliation, we will establish modern provincial and county divisions that serve all the people residing in a geographic location.

Thirdly, importantly, we must acknowledge that this past year of conflict and sedition sprang from those who challenged my election as High Chief. The Conclave system to elect the High Chief has always been contentious and this past year of bloodshed and destruction are the fruits of a system that always invites challenge and dissent. The Council of Elders has proposed, and proconsul Titianus has eagerly supported, and I have accepted, that the position of High Chief shall henceforth become a hereditary role, whereby a sitting High Chief shall name his or her successor, to be formally acknowledged and legitimized by the righteous hand of Caesar himself. There will be no more uncertainty over the succession of the position of High Chief, whose foremost function will always remain to ensure the wellbeing of Natufian citizens.

So, thus enacted, I am very proud to announce that, in due time, my eldest daughter, Dimra, shall become your High Chieftess, alongside her betrothed, Geoffrey du Heartfilia as Consort Chieftain. Geoffrey already enjoys special status in what will be known as Jeddah Province, where he will act as the Prince Governor in addition to his duties as Duke of Anjou in nearby Heartfilia. I am proud to have him join our household and the duties it entails.

Dimra, as the Chieftess-in-Waiting, I invite you to say a few words.”

Dimra smiles and steps forward to the podium,

“Thank you father. And to my fellow Natufians, I want to say how proud I am to be your High Chieftess-in-Waiting. I never desired to enter government or follow my father and great-uncle’s path, but I see so much potential for what our wonderful nation can be, that I am excited to have the opportunity to help build Natufia to be the beacon of strength and inspiration I know it can be. We are an industrious people, a practical people, but have always kept our cultural expressions localized and personal. It is my…and my future husband’s… intention to bring forth our music, art and literature to prominence across our lands. I want you to know I will serve all Natufians and am committed to our people as a whole, with no tribal favoritism. Therefore, I am, with my father’s reluctant blessing, renouncing my al-Shuqba name and taking on the ancient name of our common ancestors who migrated to these lands back in the mists of history, the source of all our tribes. This, I will henceforth be known as Dimra an-Natuf, as shall my offspring for all the generations to come that will serve this great land.”

projection ends

Mrs. Ziyak, with an air of solemnity, shut down the holo-projector and faced the class, a crack in her voice, “So there you have it, class. This is how the War of the Weeping Aurochs ended and set the stage for the modern nation we live in today. May the Great Aurochs bless and preserve us.”