The Last Maurician

[Eparkhos]

16 July, 609
~08:00

Iustinianus crouched behind the log, peering over it at the abandoned camp below. The tents were all packed, and he and one of the others were huddled behind logs, rock piles and trees in the hills above it, clutching bows. He looked down at the six arrows stuck into the ground beside him, running his finger down the nearest’s length to check for the sticky resin that was holding a small fuse. It was there, just as it was the previous ten times.
He looked up at a loud crack from the gully. There was a figure hunched at the space’s mouth, amongst the carpet of dried branches that had been placed there to signal an approach. He licked his lips and tugged one of the arrows up, placing it against the string but keeping it unlit. The figure took a few more cautious steps inside, then gestured back towards the opening. Several more trickled in after him, spreading out to ring the gully. He squatted down lower. Evidently, they believed that the Romans were still asleep in the camp. As the ring began to close, he began counting the figures. As the number of Visigothic warriors in the camp rose to 43, he lit the arrow, then sprang up and fired it into the air.
He had been a fairly quick shot back in Constantinople, and as the first arrow punched through the fabric of a tent he had already lit and knocked another, sending it off at another tent. There were several yells of confusion from the Visigoths, but they were overwhelmed by a terrific cracking sound as boulders fell onto the sticks and closed the pass out. More arrows fell from the other side of the gully, Marcus Dulcitius’ aim setting several tents alight. The Visigoths began to panic, running about like ants being chased by a child with a hot poker. The sides of the depression were steep, and as the barbarians tried to scramble up them they would slip and fall back down the slope. To his left, a Visigoth managed to boost himself to the lip and began to hall himself up. As his head came over the top, Iustinainus calmly put an arrow through his throat and he toppled back.
The fires spread, accompanied by agonized screams in Visigothic. There was no wind, and the smoke was left to hang over the depression as the growing flames burned through the oxygen in it. As the fire grew, the screams slowly died away. An occaisonal man managed to stagger up onto the rise, only to be taken by an arrow and fall back in. About an hour later the wind came up from the east, blowing away the smoke to reveal a camp littered with curled-bodies, most dead either from fire or from smoke inhilation.
He slid down the side of the hill with a sharp stick in hand, Dulcitius doing the same on the opposite side of the depression. They went through the bodies, stabbing them in the chest to ensure that they were dead. After a few minutes, the other man called out to him.
“Magister! This one’s a noble!”
Iustinianus stuck his spear into the testicles of the body he was closest to and picked his way as fast as he could towards Dulcitius. He was standing beside one of the burned corpses, with the point of his spear pressed against a spot on the Visigoth’s chest armor. He kicked it over as Iustinianus came close, revealing a burnished eagle on its surface, still visible through the ashes.
“What should we do with the body, sir?”
Iustinianus bit his lip, thinking. After a few seconds, he said “Leave it. The crows won’t care. But,” he turned to face the entry into the ruins of the camp, “A noble wouldn’t have come on foot, so this particular group was probably cavalry.”
“And since they were trying to sneak up on us, they probably left their horses far enough away that the holders might not’ve heard or seen anything.” Dulcitius finished.
Iustinianus turned back to him. “Very good. What are the names of the two who sealed the exits?”
“Philippus and Flavius, sir.”
“Thank you.” he turned and called out their names. The two popped out of the bushes at the sides of the hill, swords in hand.
“Follow us on the sides of the path. If you see anything, call out.”
They nodded, disappearing back into the scrub.

 

[Eparkhos]

If anyone has any suggestions for either my writing or the plot, I'm open to any ideas that are put forth.

 

[CaekDaemon]

If anyone has any suggestions for either my writing or the plot, I'm open to any ideas that are put forth.

I'm a sucker for anything about Rome, and I've only just gotten started by putting the thread on my watch list, but there's one big change I'd suggest - starting a new line after each section of dialogue. That turns this...

Iustinianus bit his lip, thinking. After a few seconds, he said “Leave it. The crows won’t care. But,” he turned to face the entry into the ruins of the camp, “A noble wouldn’t have come on foot, so this particular group was probably cavalry.”
“And since they were trying to sneak up on us, they probably left their horses far enough away that the holders might not’ve heard or seen anything.” Dulcitius finished.
Iustinianus turned back to him. “Very good. What are the names of the two who sealed the exits?”
“Philippus and Flavius, sir.”
“Thank you.” he turned and called out their names. The two popped out of the bushes at the sides of the hill, swords in hand.
“Follow us on the sides of the path. If you see anything, call out.”
They nodded, disappearing back into the scrub.

...into this.

Iustinianus bit his lip, thinking. After a few seconds, he said “Leave it. The crows won’t care. But,” he turned to face the entry into the ruins of the camp, “A noble wouldn’t have come on foot, so this particular group was probably cavalry.”

“And since they were trying to sneak up on us, they probably left their horses far enough away that the holders might not’ve heard or seen anything.” Dulcitius finished.

Iustinianus turned back to him. “Very good. What are the names of the two who sealed the exits?”

“Philippus and Flavius, sir.”

“Thank you.” he turned and called out their names. The two popped out of the bushes at the sides of the hill, swords in hand.

“Follow us on the sides of the path. If you see anything, call out.”

They nodded, disappearing back into the scrub.

It not only looks cleaner, but makes it easier for a reader to keep track of where they are in each part. Otherwise, the line between each speaker begins to blur together, and it can make it awkward to keep track of where one is and who's speaking at any given time. You don't need to do it after each sentence, just after each speaker. Makes things easier!

 

[Paschalis]

Yea i agree with CaelDaemon, a line between each speaker would be great

 

[Eparkhos]

17 July, 609
12:00

Iustinianus nodded toward the path and started walking, Dulcitius following a few steps behind. They scrambled up one of the more accessible sides, pushing aside bodies, then climbed back down onto the path on the far side of the barricades. They made their way down the road quietly, walking in the center to avoid the various detritus that were scattered along the sides. As they came out from the valley, the magister signaled to Dulcitius to stay low and out of view of the side fields. One curve on the path later, and they had a clear view of a half-dozen horse holders standing with the Visigothic horses in an empty field.

Iustinainus held out a hand to Dulcitius, then strode out into full view of the field. None of the horse-holders seemed to notice.

“Ho!” he shouted.

They all snapped up, several going for scabbards at their waists.

“Don’t bother,” he said, “there’s fourty bowmen in the brush, and each of ‘em’s got an arrow on one of you.”

One of the horse-holders, dressed and groomed as Visigothic as humanly possible, stepped out from behind one of the horses and said, in shaky, mispronounced Latin, “Not need. All be Romans.”

Iustinianus bit back a smile. “All be Romans?”

“All be Romans.” he had to be a noble, most likely a minor one but still ransom-able.

“Well then, if all be Romans then you’ll understand that if you don’t say ‘Sunna and Witteric will burn in hell’ back to me in Latin, you’ll be tortured to death with red-hot pokers.”

Four of the men in the back, all unarmed, started and quickly repeated the phrase, but the others just shot each other confused looks and the nobleman weakly said “Yes?”

Iustinianus nodded as if thinking, then called out to the Latin-speakers. “Are you conscripts?”

They all nodded.

“Alright, tell the Goths to drop their weapons and run, I’m giving them a five-minute head start. If you’re unwilling to fight for the Empire, you might as well go with them.”

One of them shouted what he guessed was the Visigothic version of that, then turned and ran. Most of the other dropped their scabbards and their horses’ reigns and took of after them, leaving only the noble and the conscripts standing amongst the steeds.
He stared Iustinianus dead in the eye. “You’re bluffing.”

Iustinianus snapped at the hills, hoping one of his men would see it. On cue, two arrows buried themselves in the dirt on the either side of the man’s feet. He turned and ran, hurling his sword away. Iustinianus paused a for a few seconds, watching the nobleman flee. Then he turned to the conscripts.

“I’m promoting you all to Miles. You two,” he pointed them out, “Get as many horses as you can together. And you,” he gestured to the third man, more of a boy, really, “Come with me.”

He turned and walked back into the brush, gesturing to the Philippus and Flavius to stay in place as Dulcitius emerged from behind a tree. The boy turned the edge of the hill, only to smack into Dulcitius’ back. He apologized profusely, falling in step behind the man.

The scrambled up the hill and then down again into the ruins of the camp. Iustinianus took a few steps out before the two, then turned and said “We’re going to have to go through the bodies and take any armor or weapons they have on them.”

Dulcitius nodded, walking off towards the nearest blackened corpse. The conscript, however, was agape and looked back and forth between the bodies and Iustinianus. He ignored him and started to walk towards one of the corpses. Behind him, the boy squeaked.

“But—we can’t—we can’t steal from the dead! It’s unholy!”

He sighed, annoyed. “What’s your name, Miles?”

“G-Gordianus Aëtius, sir.”

“Well, Gordianus,” he said, bending and tugging a scabbard from a belt, never breaking eye contact from the miles, “You’re right, we can’t steal from the dead. They’re already dead, they won’t miss it. Come on now, we need to have these all clear by nightfall.”

Gordianus slowly crept towards a heavily burned body with a spatha clenched in its fist. He trepidatedly tugged at the sword, only for the whole lower arm to snap off with a sound like breaking twigs. He puked into the grass, but to his credit he pulled the spatha free and placed it to the side.

Iustinianus looked back to his body and carried on.

 

[Eparkhos]

Hey, sorry. I was unable to post due to a combination of two factors: One; my internet was down for Tuesday-Friday and Two; my saves for Updates 10-17 were all corrupted and had to be re written. I just finished #10, so here it is.

P.S. I'm still open to any tips.

 

[Eparkhos]

18 July, 609
~19:50
Visigothic Camp, ~1/2 mile west of Malaca

Vagrila set his cup back down on the folding table and reluctantly went back to scratching away at the small mound of papers on it. He sighed.

He had come to Malaca with a thousand men, expecting a quick and successful siege. Instead, the garrison commander, a decrepit old man who had to be older that Roman control of the city, had refused him the city. The spiteful bastard had even been able to get a convince a chunk of Vagrila's men that a massive reief army was coming overland from Spar-whatever-the-hell-it-was. Why couldn't the Romans just call it Cartagena like everyone else?

"Duc!"

Great, there was someone at the mouth of the tent. If it was another messenger from Witteric chewing him out for not recovering the southern coast again, he was going to march on the capital and hang him from Saint Eugenius' himself.

"Duc!"

He needed a drink.

"Duc!"

He stood up, knocking the stool down as he rose and stormed towards the mouth of the tent. His hand was on the inside of the flap before he realized that the man's voice was laced with fear and panic. He threw it open. The man was hopping nervously from foot to foot, glancing frantically from him to the horizon.

"What is it?!" Vagrila snapped.

He pointed at the hills to the north. Vagrila squinted at them, but all he could make out was a dark smear against the horizon, most likely the beginnings of night. He looked, irritated, at the man.

"What? What's so important about the night sky?"

The man pointed, whimpering, at a small patch of sunlight to the far left of the visible sky. Vagrila looked at the patch, then at the dark smear, then back to the patch. He was about to ask again what was so important when a small hole appeared in the smear.

"Holy Arius, that's a dust cloud."

From the size of the cloud, the force that was kicking up that much dust had to have been at least 3,000 men. There weren't that many fighting men in all of Baetica, so they couldn't have been his. So they must have been either a Royal army or the Romans.

Either would want him dead, and neither would be coming to help him.

He grabbed the man's shoulder. "Go to the nobles and tell them that we need to be out of here in" he looked at the cloud "ten minutes. Don't take anything they can't gather in ten minutes."

The man nodded, then took off running. Vagrila walked back into his tent, downed the rest of his wine, then calmly started walking towards the horse pens. Athalric had taken fifty of them after that Roman scout, leaving only twenty in the camp. Given that the chances of Witteric and or the Romans executing him was much higher than that of the average soldier, he didn't feel to bad for taking a mount.

---------------------------------------------------------

18 July, 609
~20:15
Almogium, 12 miles north of Visigothic Camp

"Magister!"

Iustinianus looked away from the rows of horses weaving back and forth across the small clearing. Gordianus was dashing towards him, grinning.

"The Goths are retreating!"

He allowed his dust-dried lips to smile. Granted, the Goths may just be faking a retreat to draw them down from the hills, but it still showed that his scheme had convinced them that he had a large force at his command.

Then his smile curved into a frown. There was no guarantee that they wouldn't return the next day, or the day after that.

Nevermind. For now, all he had to worry about was getting his men inside the city.

"Gordianus, go back to the cliff. Wait half an hour after the last Goths are out of sight, and then come back when they are."

The boy nodded, then bolted away again. Iustinianus looked back to the small herd of horses that the others were driving around the clearing. Most of them had bundles of armor and rocks tied to their tails, all of which were kicking up massive clouds of dust. A small cluster of horses tried to slip away through a gap.

"Keep it up!" he shouted, dashing to corral the break-aways, "The Goths are falling back!"

Several of the men gave a weak cheer. They were tiring, but still able to keep going. Hopefully, they could do so for longer than it took for the Goths to retreat. He jumped back into the circle, yelling and screaming at the horses.

 

[Eparkhos]

Hold on, dear readers, I'm still writing. I've just had to re-write part 11 twice.

 

[Eparkhos]

20 July, 609

~1300


Leontius leaned back into the curve of the arch, trying to get out of the glaring sun. God, he hated Iulius. No rain, no clouds, bright sun all the way until late Augustus, if you were lucky. He tucked the scroll of papyrus under his arm, then picked his bota from the ground and drank.


He idly looked out at the field beyond the walls. The remains of the Visigothic camp were strewn about it, many of the tents collapsed and folded in on themselves from their owner’s quick flight. Over the past two days, the Malacans had stripped the weapons, armor and other metals from it. Most of it was already dumped in the old arena. There was a lot of it, so much that every able-bodied soldier in the city was in the process of sorting. Which was why the kentarches was spending his 74th birthday keeping watch over the west gate.


A few moments later, someone called his name from the stone stairs down to the city. He glanced down. There was a small boy perched on one near the bottom.



“What is it, boy?” he called down.


“The council, sir! Caesarius has returned from Aquam Frigum and he’s called for a town assembly!”


He groaned internally. Marcus Iulius Caesarius’ voyage to the Baleares Islands-the Malacans called them ‘Aquam Frigum’, for the supposed coolness of their water-to gather aid for the city had been a lovely break from being reminded every thirty seconds of who was the son of a Jew and a freedwoman and who could trace their family back to Aeneas. The man was a control freak, and the mastermind of the marital conscription law.


He smirked, looking back to the hills. Then again, the Malacans were almost worshipping the new magister for driving off Vagrila. If he was able to use Iustinianus to turn the plebs against Caesarius, the latter would almost certainly be driven away. And he would most definitely enjoy that.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


A few hours later, he staggered into the amphitheater. The speaking/acting space was a narrow oval stretching about 130 feet long and 60 feet across; the height difference between that and the stands was 6 feet, and then another 5 to the linen tarp that was anchored to the low wall above the first three rows. Most of Malaca’s population, roughly 400, was scattered around inside. The city elders, numbering about a dozen, were sitting in the mouth of the opposite, sealed opening. Torches poked up from the walls, and a fire was being stoked in the middle.


Leontius scanned the crowd, hoping that Aemilianus, the physician, had gotten Iustinianus well enough to attend. After a few seconds, his eyes alighted upon him leaning in the frame of one of the side entrances with a teenager propping him up. He crossed over to the doorway, but as he came closer it became clear that the magister was barely upright. The boy was holding him up as well as he could and Iustinianus’ eyes were almost closed.


“Why the hell is he here?” he hissed.



The boy stammered out “Philippus said that you asked for him to come.”


“I didn’t.” Leontius said, “Did Aemilianus clear him?”


“No, sir. He only let him out after makin’ him drink a congius of nabed.”


“Nabed?”



“Opium, arrope and ceretanum. Moorish drink.”


Leontius looked worriedly to Iustinianus. That much ‘nabed’ would have had him out enough that he wouldn’t feel a sword through the neck. There was no way in hell that he should be in public. He grimaced and looked back to the boy.


“Take him back to wherever Aemilianus had him.”


The kid nodded, then turned and started dragging the magister down the stone corridor to the street. Leontius shook his head, then turned to face the amphitheater.


Just as he did so, Caesarius strode out from the open entrance. Although he was a sexigenarian, his hair was still streaked with brown and his chin and nose were as firm as those of a man half his age.


“Salve, Malacans! I go for two weeks to the Baleares, and when I come back you have replaced me!”


There were a few cautious laughs from the crowd, but for the most part they didn’t respond. Caesarius cocked his head and looked around. As he was about to continue, Leontius stepped out of the doorway.


“We didn’t replace you, Marcus. If you’ll think back to when Tiberius Constantius appointed you, you were given the title of Dux. Now, Iustinianus is Magister Militum of Spaniae. Magister outranks Dux. We didn’t replace you; You weren’t even replaced.” He paused. “And, might I say, he’s done a far better job against the Visigoths in five days than you have in that and thirty.”


About a dozen of the gathered began nodding. They were clustered around one of the side entrances; most of their faces were still dusty and several had red lines along their arms. Iustinianus’ cavalry.


Caesarius glared at him. “A fine thing for you to say, Leontius. You’ve been here since Liberius came. Kentarches, conquer thyself.”


He blinked. “One of the Jews says that to Christ during the crucifixion. Are you sure that our fortunes were the only thing that changed while you were amongst the Iueons?”


There were several stifled chuckles from the Malacans. Caesarius’ face slowly turned a flush purple, but in a flash the burning hatred disappeared from his face, replaced by a smile.


“Kentarches, I am most surprised that you believe I would be in the same circles as your whore of a mother.”


Leontius’ vision flashed red, but all he did was clench his fists against his side. If he were to start a brawl… at his age…


“Caesarius,” he hissed, “How long were you in Baleares?”


Caesarius looked at him calculatingly. “Three weeks.” he said slowly.


Leontius strode out from the side of the arena and turned to face the crowd.


“Three weeks! THREE GODDAMN WEEKS! Caesarius left us for three weeks when he knew that Vagrila was marching against us! Iustinianus has the seal of the emperor, the superior rank and, above all, risked his life in defense of Malaca!” he turned and stormed towards Caesarius, stopping a few feet in front of him. “And all while Caesarius, whose authority comes from a dead man, who was appointed by a barely legitimate emperor, one named after a persecutor of Christians to boot, was cowering away in the islands!”


He turned back towards the Malacans. “By God, why did we allow him in from the port?”


A current of murmurs spread over the Malacans and Caesarius stepped back, glaring at Leontius.


“Damn you,” he hissed, “Something is wrong here. And when I know, I’ll come back.”


One of the Malacans-Leontius thought he was Marcus Dulcritius-stepped forward, swiveling to face the crowd.


“I think Leontius has spoken for all of us.”


He then turned to Caesarius.


“If you find the Baleares so attractive that you prefer them to Malaca, then I suggest that you stay there. I believe that there is a Frankish trader in the harbor.”


Caesarius scanned the crowd, searching for any sign of favour. After a few seconds, he turned and slowly, deliberately walked towards the entrance. He glared over his shoulder at the Malacans. Leontius grinned as he watched him leave.

 

[Eparkhos]

22 July 609

~0900




Iustinianus hesitantly pushed open the door of the castellum. He was fairly certain that this was where Phillippus had told him to go, as this was the only fort within the walls, but the doors of Malaca’s military center should have had at least two guards manning it. He stepped inside and called out “Leontius?”


There was an answering grunt from somewhere within the building, so he shut the door behind him and walked towards it. The hallway was lined with doors and he pushed each one open as he passed. The eleventh opened to the kentarches hunched over a desk, scribbling away at an unfurled scroll. He looked up as Iustinianus entered.


“Ah, magister,” he said, pushing the scroll aside, “I’m glad you’re awake.”


Iustinianus nodded. “So am I. Phillippus said that I was kicked by a horse and was out for four days?”


“Something like that.”


“Now, uh, what did you want to see me about?”


Leontius set the scroll down beside the desk, then slid open a drawer and produced another scroll. “It occurred to me yesterday,” he said, unrolling it, “That I didn’t give you a overview of Spaniae last week.” He spread the scroll across the surface, pinning its corners down with writing tools and codexes.

He pointed to the purple blotches. “Those are us.”


Iustinianus frrowned. It had been almost a year since he had gotten a look at a halfway decent map off even part of the Empire, and the Roman retreat from West Africa meant that either the Roman government in Carthage was collapsing or that the Berber tribes were getting stronger. Hopefully, it was just an outdated map.


“When was this map made?” he asked, cutting off Leontius as he pointed at one of the blotches.


“What? Oh, I think it was…” he lifted up one of the edges and read the underside, “603.” He sighed. “I can imagine that it’s gotten worse since then.”


Damn. “Sorry to interrupt you, carry on.”


Leontius nodded, pointing to the middle blotch on the Iberian coast.

He pointed to the purple blotches. “Those are us.”


Iustinianus frrowned. It had been almost a year since he had gotten a look at a halfway decent map off even part of the Empire, and the Roman retreat from West Africa meant that either the Roman government in Carthage was collapsing or that the Berber tribes were getting stronger. Hopefully, it was just an outdated map.


“When was this map made?” he asked, cutting off Leontius as he pointed at one of the blotches.


“What? Oh, I think it was…” he lifted up one of the edges and read the underside, “603.” He sighed. “I can imagine that it’s gotten worse since then.”


Damn. “Sorry to interrupt you, carry on.”


Leontius nodded, pointing to the middle blotch on the Iberian coast.

“That’s Malaca and the surrounding countryside. The limits to our control are, for all intents and purposes, the hills. At the last survey, Christ-Mass of 608, we had more or less 350 men of fighting age.”


“Wait a minute, you told me that there were only a hundred and twenty-five soldiers!”


Leontius looked away, shifting in his seat. “Officially, there are only 125 soldiers. The others are militia.”


Iustinianus hissed through his teeth. It irritated him severely that the kentarches had lied by omission when he first came to the city. But then again, it was wise to be suspicious of strange men. He mentally dropped the point.


“Malaca is the theoretical capital of Spaniae, but the real power center is Septem.” Leontius pointed to the patch on the African coast.

“There are two major noble families in the province, the Comentiolii and the Delii.”

Iustinianus blinked. “Delii? As in Aulus-”


“Aulus Delius, the boy who you got killed by the Goths a few days ago? Yeah, I’d recommend playing to the Comentiolii. Anyway, there are 250 regulars and maybe 700 militia between Septem and Tingis.”


Well, at least there’s that.


“And then there’s Asidona and Carteia.”

“Carteia has maybe a dozen families within its walls, barely enough to hold it against any assaults. We don’t know what’s going on in Asidona, there hasn’t been a messenger from the city in two years.


“Well.”


“Aye. I know-knew, maybe, the garrison commander.” he sighed. “Poor Licinianus. Odds are that his head’s on a pike in Toledo.”


Leontius paused for a moment, staring off into the distance. He shook his head after a few seconds, snapping out of it.


“The situation’s fairly similar in Sparteriosis. We’ll get an occasional ship from Marcus Comentiolus, the governor, telling us that the Goths are raiding closer to the walls. In May, they tried to cross the bay into the harbor before being driven off. There are no-where near enough men to transfer any.”

“And finally, there are the Baleares.”

“They’re the only part of the province that aren’t raided, and their population is somewhere around 8,000, of which probably 1,500 are men of fighting age. They’re the only reserves we have.”


Leontius paused. “Anything else you want to know?”


“Yes,” Iustinianus said, leaning forward, “How many ships do we have?”


“Somewhere around a dozen, I think.”


He grinned. A plan was starting to form in his mind...

 

[Eparkhos]

Are there any questions from the audience?

I'll answer anything.

 

[unix_fan]

how many men can the goths bring to the field at this time?

 

[last admiral]

Ha! I suppose this would limit Islam to OTL Saudi Arabia then. Due to its small land area it would probably experience no permanent splits in religion like Christianity did.

No, no really. Trade is a real thing.

but that by the time the Arabs came knocking at their front door they were about as strong as a dry noodle.

Which mean our Protag can negotiate and strike peace with them.

Islam as a concept only existed decades into the Umayyad Caliphate. It is a common misconception that the invading Arabs that invaded ERE and Persia were 'Muslims'. The were actually just monotheist warlords who only later, realizing they had a MASSIVE empire decided they needed to come up with a common belief and legacy that would hold them together. Mohammed only began to be revered as being as important to Muslims think of him today, many years into the existence of the caliphate. It was during an early civil war when one claimant printed the shahada (there is no god but god, Mohammad is the messenger of god) on his coinage which immediately gave him more legitimacy than his rival. So ITTL islam will not exist but maybe some deviant "ismaelite" sect of Judaism or Christianity.

I'm sorry sir, but "Guns in the South" look like a fucking History book in comparison to this.

Isn't Tom Holland a pop history dude?

Like, I'll give the book a read but I remain skeptical.

He was, and i wouldnt take his book on par anything more than Turtledove's book.

when a strong Persia slaps Abu Bakr down and burns Mecca.

Khalid "I'm so fockin' badass" al Walid is a walking, living Mary Sue. So i cant see how Persian "slaps" Abu Bakr.

 

[Albert Blake]

I was wrong to say Islam won’t spread outside of Arabia but I’d think Islam will resemble regional pockets rather than a giant land span on maps showing religions in TTl.

 

[Paschalis]

so whats the plan ? Fall back to the Balears and regroup from there ? The Baleares could make a good island fortress and main operation base. Palma and Alcudia could become important ports/cities

 

[Eparkhos]

how many men can the goths bring to the field at this time?

In theory, the King of the Visigoths can bring to the field ~20,000 infantry and ~5,000 cavalry. In reality, the Ducs will only cooperate when

the war goal benefits them. Were Witteric to march on Malaca on 23 June 609, he would be leading ~3,000 infantry and ~1,000 cavalry. If

Vagrila were to join in, the total strength would have been ~5,000 infantry and ~1,500 cavalry.

Compounding the Visigothic weakness was religious division. There are (I think, I can't find a concrete number in the early 7th cen.) 7 major

Ducs, of which two (Vagrila and Euneric, Duc of Septimania) and the King are Arians, while the other five are Nicaeans.

I was wrong to say Islam won’t spread outside of Arabia but I’d think Islam will resemble regional pockets rather than a giant land span on maps showing religions in TTl.

You're neither wrong not right.

so whats the plan ? Fall back to the Balears and regroup from there ? The Baleares could make a good island fortress and main operation base. Palma and Alcudia could become important ports/cities

If Iustinianus were to attempt to decamp Malaca for the Baleares at this point, it would come across as betrayal, and, well...

"His head's on a pole!"
"His head's on a pole!"
"His head's on a pole!"
—The Who Was Show

The working plan is to use guerella tactics against Gothic outposts in the coast, striking far from Malaca via ship in an attempt to demoralize the Goths into surrendering while training a heavy cavalry force.

 

[Eparkhos]

29 July 609


~2200




Dulcitius froze as the blade of his spatha plunged into the ocean with a loud splash, leaving him holding a broken hilt and tang. He frantically gestured for the men behind him to stop rowing, to stow up their oars, then stared intensely at the small prick of fire lying on the shore. The other rowers quickly pulled out of the water and set their oars on the lip of the boat, setting the small craft into a spin. Dulcitius twisted slightly, trying to keep sight of the fire without making a splash. One of the rowers, thinking that they would drift off course if not righted, gently slid the end of his paddle into the water and lightly pushed them out of it. Dulcitius swiveled his head around, shot him a death glare, then looked forward again. The light remained still, no visible shadows changing around it, and after a few long, burning minutes he gestured for the others to resume rowing.


They slid up onto the bank, stowing their paddles as the lembus drifted to a stop on the dense sands. The nose held up what looked to be a safe jump a flat rock, and so he stood, dropped a solid wooden block overboard to anchor them and prepared to make the leap. He snatched up a Vascon-pick[1] from the boat and spang over to the rock, landing as quietly as possible. He eased forward and dropped to the sand with a light thud, then gestured for the man behind them to do the same. One by one, the eight men on the boat crossed onto the beach, each with a sword in hand. As the eighth landed, there was a sharp crack from further inland, amongst a cluster of rocks. They froze, then Dulcitius gestured for one of the other men, Marcus, to circle around the boulders to the left, while he crept around to the right, Vascon-pick raised.


He came around to the mouth of the cluster before the other man did and he paused, waiting for his comrade to join him. After a few seconds, a tall, dark figure strode out from the rocks, passing him seemingly without notice. He hesitated for a few seconds, but after catching sight of a metal eagle attached to his wrist he sprang forward and sunk the blade of the pick into the man’s neck. The Goth went down like a sack of rocks, the pick still buried in his neck. He was fairly sure that he was dead, but he drove the pick into the man’s skull before leaping over the body and stumbling face first into the other soldier. Marcus started to swing, but Dulcitius grabbed his arm and gestured back to the corpse. He stopped.


“Probably sentry.” Dulcitius whispered.


Marcus nodded, and they turned and slipped back around the rocks to the group. Five of them were milling about on the beach, thankfully almost silent, and one was perched on a tree branch in a near-by copse, looking towards the fire. Dulcitius gestured him down, explained the killing of a probable sentry to the group and then outlined a plan. They nodded, then moved quickly and quietly up the slope towards the fire.


The Goths were camped under linen tents, arranged in a small square beside the fire. No-one appeared to be up, so they slid around the edge of the camp. They moved slowly, trying to remain silent, but within a few minutes they were lined up within the narrow columns, two to the tent. Dulcitius scanned the campsite, making eye contact with each man. After eight nods, he raised his pick and shouted.


“Nunc!” [2]


With that, the Romans began hacking into the tents, swinging and plunging into the men sleeping within them. The luckless Goths screamed, many trying to bolt from their sleeping places. The linen triangles seemed to roil and shake as red seeped across them. And the screams, the screams were intense and terrifying, so much so that Dulcitius had to push thoughts of reciprocity from his mind. A few moments after the screams died away, he gestured to his men to return to the boat and they did so, slipping back down to the canoe and then back out to sea, then the four miles west to Malaca.




30 July 609


~0645




Leontius was woken by someone pounding at the door to his office. He stumbled from his bed and staggered over to the door, throwing it open with an exhausted “WHAT?!”


Gordianus, the magister’s messenger boy, was bouncing around in the doorframe like an overexcited puppy. He shrunk back a bit after Leontius’ yell, but quickly stammered out his message.


“S-Seven successful att-attacks last night, sir. O-one was turned away with light casualties.”


Leontius grunted. That was better than he had hoped for, once again Iustinianus had been right. No doubt this would raise the city people’s opinion of him, and maybe they would give him more power. Maybe, if Leontius was very lucky, he might take enough power for him to go into semi-retirement.


Of course, he sighed, it was Spaniae. God wouldn’t let anyone in Spaniae get lucky.




[1] Whaling axe, resembles a Hakapik
[2] Latin for "Now!"

 

[Basileus_Komnenos]

Are there supposed to be images where the brackets are? If there are they aren’t showing up.

 

[Eparkhos]

Are there supposed to be images where the brackets are? If there are they aren’t showing up.

I don't see any brackets, you may be looking at the footnote markers?

 

[Eparkhos]

Due to scheduling problems, I am unable to do a narrative update this week.

If this Sunday's update is history-book style, will anyone be upset?