The Agrinautica

   I just had a thought about a book I'd like to write. So the Ides of March having just passed I'm seeing a lot of mention of it on Twitter (I probably follow a disproportionate amount of history nerds ...... who, incidentally, tend to unfortunately skew towards toxic opinions, though that might be an all-twitter thing now (though there's a funny rule of thumb I've heard about people with classical marble statues as their profile pics as generally being toxic)). And to go off immediately on another tangent today I learned Caeser's actual last words as reported by Suetonius were "Kai su teknon" which is Greek for "and you child?" and _could_ be translated into "Et tu [pueri?]" in Latin or with a bit more literary license the famous "Et tu Brute" to refer specifically to Brutus, but is most probably actually a reference to the "kai su" that often appeared in curse tablets at the time, ie what he was actually saying was more like "see you in hell, punk!"

   But anyway anyway, this all got me thinking about how I've often thought here should be a whole series of historical fiction books set right at the fall of the Republic, civil war and rise of the Roman Empire, not least of which because I think there could be some eerie parallels to today. I imagine it being a bitttt like the Richard Sharpe series about the Napoleonic wars, but I think would definitely need at least two POV characters, who start out as best friends but find themselves on different sides of the civil war. Except what I didn't like about the Sharpe and other series' by Bernard Cornwell is that his protagonists always are the real heroes and the known heroes are always bad people who took credit -- in his telling he'd probably have Caeser as an incompetent or something (like he did to, I don't know, King Alfred, King Arthur, Paul Revere, etc etc) -- I much prefer the Flashman series that totally reverse that with the protagonist being a scoundrel who gets pulled into things and given undue credit, though obviously only one character could probably be like that.

   Anyway, here's where we catch up with the most recent thought I was excited about -- one of Caeser's first adventures was fighting pirates on the coast of what is now Turkey, I was contemplating how I might write about that and suddenly I realized, for this one would simply use as a model my other favorite genre: this would be very much Master & Commander / Horatio Hornblower etc etc etc but in triremes (galleys) in the Adriatic! (And this being like 20-30 years before the main parts of the story perhaps the father of one of the future main characters would be a POV sailor on Caeser's trireme or something).

   So yeah add that to the list of future books I'd like to write. It occurs to me, I've got no shortage of ideas, if there was any way to guarantee at least a modicum of success with at least one I could probably justify spending enough time to start getting them written but....


   And unrelated to the above, but another literary idea I was very excited about the other other day. I was thinking about the Master-and-Commander-in-Space genre (a la like the Honor Harrington series), and I had this sudden idea I felt was amazing. So there's always always artificial gravity right, which is just hand waved into existing, though I note in both the "Honorverse" and The Expanse it doesn't work when the ship isn't under power. But otherwise it generally works fine. My thought was this. What if it DOESN'T ever work fine. What IF just, the best the technology can accomplish is artificial gravity that's just a bit ... wavy. As in like.. it feels a bit like being in a ship at sea. People get sea (space) sick, professional spacers walk with the rolling gate sailors are known for.


   In other other other news I've been working on an entry that is essentially reviews of all the major Napoleonic Wars naval series. I might post that presently.

   I toss and turn in my bed like bacon sizzling on a grill. Without the exhaustion of a 27 hour journey which had made sleeping easy the night before, tonight the eight hour time difference has my body thinking 10pm is 2pm. The mosquito netting around the bed is gently illuminated with the dim golden glow of the somnolent city -- I leave the blackout blinds open, preferring city light to waking up in tomb-like darkness. Finally I drift to sleep, and let us once again suppose I had strangely accurate meflequinated dreams:
   It’s 1840 and the Fulani Jihad that had pursued the Zazzau to Abuja has spread across Yorubaland as well. The once mighty kingdom of Oyo is collapsing before the onslaught, the Fulani horsemen thundering indomitably across the open savannas. The surviving Yoruba warriors flee southward, where the land gradually becomes more forested and increasingly is almost impassable scrub off the trails and cleared ground. Here on the edge of the forest they gather into a town built on a rocky ridge on top of a hill, called Eba Odan or “by the edge of the forest.”
   The ragged warriors make their way up the trails and through the narrow entrances of the three concentric palisade walls of the town. There are cavalry on tired horses, with their lances and swords, which resemble a heavy cutlass, slightly curved and sharpened only on one side), and infantry with their four-foot hide shields and spears. As well as the traditional armaments, some warriors in the town sit cleaning guns acquired in trade with Europeans in Lagos to the south. Refugees from the north bring with them alarming tales of the tides of war. The emir of the northern Yoruba town of Ilorin has defecting his allegiance to the Sokoto Caliphate, taking with him much of the Oyo cavalry, and the capital of old Oyo Town has been razed by the Fulanis.
   The chief warriors gather in the town square. The long wood-and-thatch houses of the chieftains surround the square, and some palm trees wave at the sky. The foremost warriors are the Eso, a rank bestowed upon only a few dozen cavalrymen who have proven their prowess and ability to abide by the code of honor. These knights of the Yoruba gather in a circle surrounded by the many other warriors as their leader, the Bashorun, outlines his plan to make a stand here against the Fulani.
“The high king, the Alaafin, as you know has charged us with defending what remains of the Oyo Kingdom and defeating the Fulani invaders,” the Bashorun addresses the gathered warriors.
“Eso Elepo, I would like to appoint you as the Ibalogun, commander of our forces” he says turning to one of the foremost warriors. The assembled crowd cheers their approval, but when the noise dies down Elepo is shaking his head.
   “My own name is enough for me, I wish no title beyond eso, like my father before me.”
They try to convince him but to no avail. And so the Bashorun instead bestows the title of Ibalogun on another warrior, eso Oderinlo.


Look mate if ancient Yoruba warriors can wear masks you can too

   The Fulani armies of the Sokoto Caliphate close in on Ibadan, past the outlying villages of Ilobu and Edo, and are funnelled into ever narrower paths by the thickening forest. Suddenly from the thickets around them there is the roar of guns, followed by the screaming onrush of Yoruba warriors through the gunsmoke and shrubs, led by eso Elepo, hurling their spears and swinging their heavy swords. The Fulani horses rear up and the warriors brandish their lances but there’s no room to maneuver.
   The Ibadans pursue the Fulanis to the village of Edo, and in their bloodlust are prepared to raze it before Elepo and his men stop them, reminding them that the Edoans are their people. They advance further to Ilobu and again Elepo holds back the wild warriors from destroying it. In gratitude the people of Ilobu heap gifts in front of Elepos tent.
As the victorious warriors troop back through Ibadan to the central square, the gathered crowds cheer for no one more than edo Elepo. When they are gathered before the Bashorun the Ibalogun complains that Elepo is taking credit beyond his station for their victories, and demands he prostrate himself before him.
   “I prostrate myself before no one but the Bashorun!” Elepo objects. The Ibalogun scowls darkly at him but Elepo is too powerful to punish.
   “What is your plan now?” the Bashorun asks
   “We will advance towards Osogbo across the Osun river” the Ibalogun proposes, “to push the Fulani entirely out of this area of Yorubaland. We can’t compete with their horsemen on the open plains during daylight but we will only seek to meet them by night.”
   “Yes this is a good plan will you take the entire army?” the Bashorun asks.
   “No,” says the Ibalogun with a sneer, “Eso Elepo can remain here with his thousand men.”
   “You can’t win without Elepo!” blurted out one of Elepo’s supporters, eliciting a glare from the Ibalogun.

   A warrior comes galloping up the trail from Osogbo. There are cuts on his muscular arms that look like they’ll scar but he sits straight and proud in his saddle.
“What news??” people call to him as he enters the palisade gates, “were you victorious?” but he stares straight ahead expressionlessly as he rides up the streets to the central square and Bashorun’s house. There he dismounts and enters. A short time later the Bashorun emerges, looks around the crowd that has gathered, expressionlessly, and then breaks into a grin to announce
   “They have won a great victory! The Fulani tide has been turned back!” and the crowd broke into loud cheers.
   A little later, however, when the Bashorun saw eso Elepo he took him aside.
   “The messenger reports that the war chiefs want you to leave, with the glory they have now won you cannot stand against them.”
   “You won’t stand up for me? Remember when I alone stood up for you after the Ota War, when the Bashorun Lakanle and his war chiefs ordered that you would not be permitted to return?”
   “Yes, yes, my friend, I remember. “ Bashorun Oluyole says putting his hand on Elepo’s shoulder, “listen, just temporarily go to Ipara until I can smooth things out here.”
   Elepo looks his friend in the eye and knows he’ll never return but nods resignedly.


Ibadan in the 1850s

[About a week prior to last entry in this series]

Sunday, August 13th, 1214 BC – “I think we can hide the Argo in these reeds here” Argus whispered to Jason, indicating a thick reed-bed to their right. Jason judged the distance to the faint orange glow of the city up the river to be about a half hour's walk on land. He nodded to Ancaeus, the steersman, and he turned the large steer-oar. The oarsmen continued silently with their methodical strokes. The oarblades made a rhythmic splishing in the water, the river gurgled past the hull, and then they were hissing through the thick reeds.
   Deep amongst the reeds, they felt the keel slow against the resistance of the mud, and continued with a few more mighty strokes, with inadvertent grunts, until she was firmly in the hold of the muddy bottom.
   “That's well.” stated Jason, quietly, and the weary men finally rested their oars after a long day of working their way up the river. At the bow the anchor stone was heaved over with a splash that felt terribly loud in the still night. There was a muffled clatter of the crew getting up from their benches and stretching, and then all eyes turned to Jason.
   “We're here!” he announced quietly, brimming with pride. The crew grinned back at him. With a flourish he produced a golden goblet, and poured a honeyed-wine into it from a wine-skin.
   “To the souls of dead heroes, may they grant us their grace, kindly aid, and favorable omen” He held up the goblet as if a toast, the men murmered their agreement, and then he tipped the libation into the river.
   “We have reached the Colchian land,” Ancaeus addressed the crew and Jason, “and it is time to take counsel. Shall we entreat with Aeetes to give us the fleece willingly through some negotiation, or shall we attempt to take it by force?”
   “My friends,” said Jason to the attentive crew, “this is our common task, and I welcome all your thoughts and counsels, but for my part I think in the morning I shall go to Aeetes' palace with the four sons of Phrixus and two others. I will meet him and see if he will be willing to give up the golden fleece for friendship’s sake or not. Then we will consider whether we shall meet him in battle, or some other plan shall avail us,” He paused to gauge his audience, and seeing that no one disagreed, he continued “But let us not assume the battle-cry before putting words to the test. First it is better to go to him and win his favour by speech. Oftentimes, I ween, speech accomplishes what prowess could not. Remember, he once welcomed noble Phrixus, a fugitive from our lands, out of reverence the ordinance of Zeus, god of strangers.” The crew nodded and mumbled their assent.
   After a quick cold meal, the crew bedded down wrapped in their blankets in their customary spots among the benches. Around them a chorus of frogs provided a steady background noise. As Jason lay in his blankets looking at the stars above, a blueish shooting star arced across the sky.

Monday, August 14th, 1214 BC – Jason awoke just as the sky was beginning to lighten with dawn. A thick mist hung over the reedy marsh and every surface was damp with dew. Wrapping himself in his cloak against the morning cold he awakened his six chosen traveling companions, Phrixus' sons Argus, Phrontis, Melas and Cytisorus, as well as Telamon and Augeias, and they ate a quick cold breakfast of ship's biscuit.
   They lowered a small goatskin boat into the water to paddle ashore in pairs since the water was waist deep around the Argo. Frogs still croaked sleepily, and some startled ducks startled Jason and Argus in turn just as they were fumbling their way to the muddy bank.
   Once the seven of them had assembled on the shore, they pushed inland until they found a fishing trail and followed it in the up-river direction among willows and osier trees. The Phrixus brothers, who had grown up in this area soon began to recognize landmarks in the morning fog. They explained also that the Golden Fleece was actually kept on the other side of the river, where it hangs from a mighty oak tree in a sacred grove dedicated to the war god Ares, guarded by a giant serpent.
   “What are those bundles hanging from that tree?” asked Telamon, pointing to some hanging bundles high up in a tall tree just barely visible in the mist.
   “The Colchians consider it an abomination to burn dead men or to bury them,” explained Phrontis, “so they wrap them in untanned oxhides and hang them from tall trees far from the city.”
   Augeias shuddered, and Jason felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. They hurried on.
   Presently the mist burned off, revealing thatched farmhouses around them with woodsmoke curling above them as the locals no doubt made their breakfasts. Cows lowed among the fields and a few farmers could be seen already about their morning tasks. In front of them jutted the jagged peaks of the Caucasus mountains, glowing starkly golden in ruddy light of the low morning sun. The stone walls of the city of Aea sat atop the first small foothill, just beside the broad Phasis river.
   They steered toward a dirt road leading from the farms to the city walls, and up the broad stone ramp into the open gates into the city. In the square just inside the city walls they marveled at a fountain that resembled four bronze bulls with clear fresh water continuously pouring from their mouths into a stone trough, and all around them garden vines and green foliage covered in blooms carpeted the walls.
   The Phrixus brothers confidently led the group up the cobbled street to the inner-court in the center of the city. Several grand lofty buildings of multiple floors overlooked the central royal square, and well dressed servants and handmaidens hurried about their business. Suddenly there was a cry of happy surprise and an older woman dressed in royal garments came running towards the group.
   “It's our mom!” Melas happily explained to Jason before joining his brothers in hugging their mother.
   “She's the princess Chalciope I believe” Augeias reminded Telamon.
   “I thought you had departed to Greece never to return! What fate has turned you back?” their mother cried. As they began to try to explain their return – having been shipwrecked and rescued by the Colchis-bound Argonauts, they noticed all the palace servants had stopped their work and were looking at the loftiest edifice. Descending the palace steps was an old man in magnificent robes, with a golden crown upon his head, accompanied by his equally elegant wife.
   Jason noticed another royally dressed young woman in the palace doorway, with beautiful golden curls. They made eye contact for a moment before she shyly darted out of sight into the building.
   “King Aeetes, your majesty, and Queen Eidyia,” Argus addressed himself to the king, “this is Jason, son of Aeson, of Iolcus, and his companions Augeias of Elis and Telamon of Aegina”
   The king's craggy face looked suspicious but he nodded slightly and said “Welcome to Aea, You'll have to feast with us today and regale us with the tale.”
   Jason was pleased to accept on behalf of his companions.
   “You must be tired from your journey, I'll have some servants prepare a bath for you and clean your clothes, please make yourselves comfortable.”said the king, waving over a nearby servant .


   “Sons of my daughter and of Phrixus, whom beyond all strangers I honoured in my halls,” Aeetes addressed the brothers few hours later, sitting at the royal banquet table, “why have you come returning back to Aea?” and without pausing for an answer he continued, “Did some calamity cut short your journey in the midst? Ye did not listen when I set before you the boundless length of the way. But what pleasure is there in words? Tell me plainly what has been your fortune, and who these companions of yours are.” He finally stopped to eat some grapes.
   Argus, the oldest, answered carefully:
   “King Aeetes, dear grandfather, our ship was torn asunder by stormy blasts and we, clinging to beams, were cast onto the beach of the isle of Enyalius in the murky night, preserved by some god.”
   “Is that island not haunted by murderous birds?” asked the king
   “These men had driven them off the day before, it seems” Argus answered “And they took us in and truly Zeus was smiling on us for it happened they were bound just here”
   “And why were you bound here?” asked the King looking askance at Jason, “you don't look like merchants”
   As Jason had just taken a bite of food and Argus hoped he could best manage his temperamental grandfather, he answered for him:
   “A certain king, vehemently longing to drive this man far from his fatherland and possessions, sends him to voyage hither on a bootless venture; and asserts that the stock of Aeolus” --here naming a common ancestor of both Phrixus and Jason-- “will not escape the wrath of Zeus due for Phrixus until the fleece comes back to Hellas. But” he hurried to add as Aeetes' eye appeared to be popping out “as thou dost please, so shall it be, for he cometh not to use force, but is eager to pay thee a recompense for the gift. He has heard, for example, from me of thy bitter foes the Sarmatians, and perhaps if he will subdue them to thy sway...” At this point he trailed off, realizing that the kings face had become red and everyone was looking at him fearfully.
   “Begone from my sight, felons!” he roared, pounding a fist on the table, “straightaway! You and your tricks! Banded together with your friends from Hellas, not for the fleece, but to seize my sceptre and royal power!” The brothers had turned white but dared not interrupt the outburst, which continued: “Had you not first tasted of my table, surely would I have cut out your tongues and hewn off both hands and sent you forth with your feet alone! And what lies have you have uttered at my table against the blessed gods!”
   Telamon, was about to make a sharp rebuke but Jason, beside him, put his hand on his shoulder to quell him and answered calmly:
   “Your majesty, I assure you it is only as suppliants we come to you, to beg this favor. Allow us to subdue the Sarmatians or some other people for you and we will proclaim your glorious fame throughout Hellas!”
   The king seemed to calm down slightly, but despite Jason's flattering tone, the king glared at them and secretly brooded as to whether he should have them all put to death on the spot, or should make trial of their might. But it could bring a curse upon him to kill people he had treated as guests, so he concluded to give them an impossibly dangerous task.
   “Stranger, if you are in truth of so great a lineage,” he began slowly, picking his words, “I will give you the fleece to bear away, if you wish, when you have proven yourself. For against brave men, I bear no grudge. And the trial of your courage and might shall be a contest which I myself can compass with my hands, deadly though it be. I have two bulls with feet of bronze pastured on the field of Ares, breathing forth flame from their jaws; I yoke them in the morning and drive over four paddocks of stubborn soil in a day. I seed the furrows with the teeth of a dragon, and they grow into armed men; whom I slay at once, cutting them down beneath my spear as they rise against me on all sides. If you can accomplish such deeds as these, on that very day shalt you carry off the fleece; ere that time comes I will not give it, expect it not. For indeed it is unseemly that a brave man should yield to a coward.”
   Aeetes finished his challenge, quite pleased with himself, and cheerfully set about cutting himself another piece of meat with his bronze knife. Everyone around the table sat in silence.
   “Well,” spoke Jason after a moment, “that sounds like a monstrous undertaking, but I was obliged to pursue the fleece at the command of a king, and I have no choice but to accept the challenge,” and thinking to impress the king's beautiful young daughter at the far end of the table, to whom he hadn't yet had a chance to speak, he added melodramatically “even if it means I will die trying.”

   “Go forth now, since you are eager for the toil; you shall try the task in two days hence; but if you shouldst fear to lift the yoke upon the oxen or shrink from the deadly harvesting, I hope it will be a lesson to men to shudder to ask such things from those who are better than he.” and he waved his hand dismissively.
   Jason, Telamon and Augeias were obliged to get up, even though they all still had food on their plates and in fact Augeias had been about to take another bite of steak when the sudden dismissal came, which he reluctantly put down. The Phrixus brothers also made to get up, but Argus motioned for his brothers to remain and only he accaompanied the other three Argonauts. They bowed briefly to Aeetes and made their way to the exit with as much dignity as such an abrupt dismissal would allow. Before leaving the room Jason cast a quick glance toward the golden haired daughter at the end of the table, and felt a bit embarrassed to accidentally make eye contact with her before looking away. The four Argonauts with quiet dignity made their way down the palace hall, descended the grand staircase and exited into the fresh afternoon air of the royal square. They didn't begin to talk about their indignation at Aeetes haughty and arrogant manner until they were safely out of the city, but this topic then occupied them all the rest of the way to the Argos in its reedy hideaway.

   Spotted Owl sat cross-legged on a large rock. Red Bobcat watched an eagle wheel about in the sky until it passed directly overhead right through the blinding brightness of the sun.
   "we should go down from here" said Spotted Owl, climbing down from his pedestal.
   "Down to there you mean?" Red Bobcat asked, indicating the forests below the large rock outcropping they had been living on.
   "Yes, down below." said Spotted Owl.
   "Why?"
   "We should see things from another perspective. And meet people other than only those who seek us out."
   Red Bobcat nodded, it sounded wise. They collected their few possessions and that very afternoon picked their way carefully down the steep sides of the rock. Once they were amongst the pine forests below, they continued in a generally downward direction meandering through the hilly terrain. Birds flitted about, butterflies danced in the light, the occasional startled marmot darted behind rocks at their approach. The wind made a gentle sibilant sound amongst the pines.
   Finally they descended into a sheltered meadow with a stream running through it and forming several crystal clear pools, and Spotted Owl declared "This is as far down as we shall go, let us set up camp here."
   Red Bobcat wondered if Spotted Owl had already had this spot in mind, but didn't like to bother him with such mundane questions. They immediately started building a hut by the edge of the meadow.


   After a number of days, a traveler came upon them. He was a rather large fellow with somewhat unkempt hair. He introduced himself as Standing Bison, explaining he was traveling between two villages. As it was late in the day Spotted Owl invited him to stay the night with them. The man was friendly and talkative, but Red Bobcat presently began to notice he was prone to be argumentative and stubborn, tending to loudly criticize things he didn't agree with. The man contributed to dinner a rabbit he had caught earlier in the day and after loudly criticizing the way Red Bobcat was roasting it he proceeded to take the roasting and cutting of the meat in hand himself. Red Bobcat began to feel a bit resentful that Spotted Owl declined to argue with the man, instead when the man became brash and obstinate on a point Spotted Owl would smile serenely and let the man continue his exhortations until the subject changed.
   As the evening darkened to night Red Bobcat became tired, but the visitor seemed happy to keep piling more wood on their fire. Spotted Owl lay down in his corner of the hut wrapped in his furs. And presently Red Bobcat did so as well in his own corner, but still Standing Bison talked to them and put more wood on the fire. Red Bobcat found it very hard to sleep with the fire burning so bright and hot so close, much less with the man blithely talking to him. Finally Red Bobcat managed to fall asleep, only to be awoken in the night by the man chastising him for snoring. And then much to Red Bobcat's surprise the man was up again at the very first light of day talking to them again and rousing them for breakfast.
   Finally the man left to continue his journey.
   "Why did you not chastise that man for his behavior??" Red Bobcat asked Spotted Owl as soon as the man was out of sight.
   Spotted Owl smiled knowingly a little and said "It is well for you to master your patience against such tests."
   "Surely it is not manful for us to let him behave so to us" insisted Red Bobcat
   "Sure some times one must stand against those who would take unfair advantage of you," explained Spotted Owl, "but the true art of winning battles is to know when you don't need to fight them. This man wasn't trying to take advantage of us, he was just badly behaved. If we had quarreled with him we'd have had a worse evening and he would have gone away thinking we are disagreeable instead of impressed with our imperturbability."
   "Hmmm" said Red Bobcat.
   "Try to understand this man, consider his motivations and his troubles. Even looking into the lowest pool of water you will find reflections of yourself looking back at you."
   Red Bobcat glanced over at the nearby stream. He felt inclined to argue, he stubbornly didn't want to find any merit in that loutish man.

December 1915 - They leaned against the wall of the trench, shoulder to shoulder, trying to stay out of the stream of muddy water flowing through the middle.
   "Another day in paradise" muttered Johnnie, pulling his ten helmet down to shield his eyes from the rain.
   Tom nodded vacantly, trying to enjoy the "calm" before the storm. Artillery shells whistled overhead, occasionally a particularly close explosion rained dirt down on the men in the trenches. Between the explosions of shells, there was a constant crackle of gunfire.
   "God damn Turks" grumbled Hank.
   "Alright boys, get ready to go over!" called out the sergeant. The men turned around and gripped the wooden planks that reinforced the sides of the trench, poised to climb over. Tom moved as if in a dream. He knew that death very likely waited for him over the edge of the trench, but still he moved like an automaton in preparation to throw himself over the lip and fight to the death against a people who were his enemy for some very obscure reason.
 All across the line the sergeants blew their whistles and without thinking Tom scrambled up the muddy trench wall in unison with everyone else. The man immediately to his right, Vognsen, was hit as soon as they came over the lip, falling backwards with a muffled yelp.
   Tom gripped his rifle and tried to duck low while running forward. The landscape in front of him was a hell of mud and craters and abandoned water-filled trenches. Up a slippery slope of a few hundred feet of this were the trenches occupied by the Turks. Tom only had time for a quick glance in that direction, before he had to return his gaze to the treacherous terrain right in front of him. In those few seconds he glimpsed the flash of dozens of gun muzzles firing. Then he was splashing through the mud, scanning for placed to land his next step where he wouldn't slip and fall in the open, trying not to trip on barbed wire or one of the many bodies already here. Bullets zipped past and he was vaguely aware of more people being hit and falling, and then he was diving into a crater that would shelter him from the enemy fire.
   Hank and Johnnie splashed down beside him immediately after. They were now thoroughly covered in mud but that was the least of their worries. After catching their breath for a moment they nodded to eachother, it was time to keep going. The attack could only succeed if everyone kept going and maintained the momentum. To give in to fear would only leave one stranded in the middle of the battlefield, and worse, accused of cowardice. All together they heaved themselves out of the crater and back into hell. This time Tom saw people running ahead of him, and falling down dead. Men hiding behind obstructions, some with a look of determination on their faces, some with a look of terror.
   Johnnie suddenly jerked and fell to the ground holding his side. Hank hesitated for a second as if to help him but after several shots whizzed by very close he thought better of it and kept running. An explosion near Hank sent up a fountain of dirt and propelled him into a muddy ditch, where he lay dazed for a moment. He looked around no man's land and saw fellow anzacs falling left and right. He gripped his rifle and started to get up but a bullet ricocheted off the top of his helmet just as it started to clear the trench, sending him back down again.
   "Retreeeat!" he heard someone calling. He looked around to see what everyone else was doing, scarcely daring to hope it was an actual order and not a lone man who'd lost his nerve. "Retreat!" he heard again from a different voice, and saw soldiers running back the way they'd come. But they were still getting shot at, still dying. It wasn't over yet. But he realized he needed to run now while everyone else was, and not be a lone target later, so he jumped up and started running.
   He splashed back the way he'd come, jumping over snarls of barbed wire and muddy collapsed trenches. Before he knew it he was hurling himself headlong into the jump-off trench, slamming into the back wall painfully, but he was safe. He lay in the foot-deep muddy water at the bottom of the trench catching his breathing and thanking god he was still alive. He was still gripping his rifle, though he realized he hadn't fired a shot. He looked up and saw Hank next to him in the trench.

...



"Heeelp! Please heelp me!" the pained piteous cry had been coming from No Man's Land for hours. There had been plenty of moaning and screaming in the months this battle had dragged on, but this was different, at least for Tom and Hank, because this was clearly Johnnie's voice, their squadmate. Peering over the edge of the trench they could see him lying midway between the trenches, covered in blood.
   "Where are the stretcher bearers??" Hank demanded angrily for the dozenth time. During lulls in the fighting the medics from both sides would go out and collect the wounded, but this sector had been too "hot" all day. And so they had to listen to their friend slowly dying, just a hundred feet away.
   "Goddamn Turks," Hank would say, "heathen bastards!" and jump up to the edge of the trench to try to take shots at the men in the opposing trenches. Shots came rattling back pushing Hank back down the trench, and still Johnnie could be heard moaning in anguish.
   Tom was looking down his rifle sight at the enemy trench when he saw a figure heave himself out of the trench. Instantly he had him in his sight and his finger tightened on the trigger but he didn't pull it, there was something strange there. Up and down the line the crackle of gunfire continued but this man was the only one to come out of the trench, so it wasn't an attack, and he wasn't running or trying to hide. He held his hands up so it could be seen that he didn't have a weapon, and he very purposefully started walking down the slope.
   "Hey, Hank! Look at this!" Tom kicked Hank gently in the the rib, as he was down in the trench at the time. Peering over the side and seeing the man Hank instinctively pulled his rifle up to take aim but Tom pushed it down, "no look, what's he doing?"
   The soldier, muddy as they themselves, but with a sort of turban wrapped on his head instead of a tin helmet, was coming down the slope to where Johnnie lay. They could make out a dark mustache on the big man's weathered face. The battle continued around him, a shell exploded nearby and showered him with dirt but he blithely kept walking until he reached Johnnie. He bent down and carefully picked up the injured anzac, and trudged through the muddy mires directly toward Hank and Tom.
   As he approached the line Hank and Tom clambered up to take Johnnie from him, and without saying a word the big muddy mustached man turned around and started back for his own trench.


Based on a true story.

972 AD, Jorvik, England –Olaf mutters some curses as he realizes his old leather boots are doing a terrible job of keeping his feet dry.  He pauses at a corner and looks around.  He’s lived in Jorvik for many years, but the heavy misty rain is disorienting.  Narrow lanes of wattle houses, walls woven of sticks, meander about in a labyrinthine manner.  He runs his hand through his thick tangled red beard.
            Woodsmoke curls from rough holes in many of the damp thatched roofs and swirls around the grey soupy sky, but the dark silhouette of a large stone tower looms over the rooftops, and Olaf takes his bearing on it. The soggy roadway squelches under Olaf’s feet as he walks down one of the narrow lanes.  He passes the crumbling ruins of what was once the wall of a building, it must have been three stories tall in its day, but no one builds things like that anymore.  The stone is green with lichen and moss. The locals say a people called the “Romans” built these things.  Surely some kind of giants, muses Olaf, as he pulls his wool cloak closer and hurries through the rain.
            Olaf stops in front of a rather broad building, its shaggy thatch coming almost down to the ground on the sides.  A sign hangs in front, a slab of wood with a crescent moon excised out of it.  As good a sign as any in a place where few can read.  Olaf pulls back the ox-hide covering the door and ducks into the dark interior of the Crescent Moon Ale House.

            "Ah there you are you old rogue!" Knut stands up behind a table and waves his friend over. He can’t stand entirely though due to the low roof. He's not merely tall, and he's not fat, but he's big. Proportionately big. Seen by himself one might mistake him for a normal-sized person, but then one sees how he dwarfs the people beside him. His curly blonde beard does nothing to diminish his eternally good natured countenance however.
            Olaf smiles sheepishly and then lets out a grumble as he seats himself. He waves over the serving girl and orders some mutton, bread, and ale.
            "So how's that chair coming along you were working on?" asks Knut.
            "Oh, I've almost got it I think." He's not a carpenter, but the goal-oriented fellow is determined not let a simple stool get the better of him.
            "I'm going to make a stool that will last a thousand years!" he proclaims loudly it startles a nearby grey bearded, one eyed old man in a broad brimmed hat.  Olaf quickly occupies himself with taking a large swig of his juniper ale, studiously avoiding eye contact with the old man.

            The mutton and bread arrives, and the conversation turns, as it so often does, to the good old days. When Knut and Olaf were young Jorvik was an independent kingdom ruled by northmen.  Now they had an earl in a tower and a disputed throne in faraway London.
            “Next thing you know we’ll all be speaking that English!” muses Olaf.  Knut rumbles with chuckles at this idea.
            “Never, it’s far too ugly a language compared to Norwegian” he assures Olaf, who had to agree.
            Knut notices Olaf grimacing and shifting uncomfortably in his chair.  "You know, Olaf, you might feel better if you ate a vegetable now and then." Comments Knut, with stew dripping down his beard, and a wooden spoon in one hand.
            "Bah!" scoffs Olaf "rabbit food never did a man any good! ... besides I have a better solution."
            "Whatsh that?" asks Knut, a leek hanging from his mouth.
            Olaf produces a small round smooth stone. "This stone I bought at the market today. These things are supposed to cure any poison." He plunks it proudly into his ale tankard and toasts with it.
"It was found in the guts of a cow," explains Olaf, while Knut curiously peers into Olaf's wooden tankard. "…but how does it get there?" asks Olaf, tapping his forehead knowingly, "cows don't eat stones!” It's the very embodiment of the magic of digestion... or something!" he finishes a bit lamely, reluctant to put forward any advanced theological theories on the subject.
            "So.. you're going to swallow that??" asks Knut incredulously.
            "No, no, no, you just put it in your drink and its powers are absorbed by the ale," says Olaf, absently examining the joints on a nearby chair.

            A few hours and several tankards of ale later Olaf is stumbling home, when he feels the call of nature. He quickly ducks down a narrow alley between two houses that leads to the riverbank.  The overhanging thatch from the two roofs nearly touches.  He hurriedly drops his trousers and squats over a muddy pool by the bank as his bowels begin to rumble. Maybe the magic stone is starting to work, he wonders, for --I don't mean to alarm you dear reader-- but it's been a few days since he was last able to make a bowel movement. A noise erupts from his posterior that is so rude even Olaf feels a little embarrassed.  Somewhere nearby a small child begins to cry. His excretion quickly disappears into the anaerobic depths of the muddy water. Olaf hurriedly pulls a handful of straw off the nearby roof thatch, wipes his rump with it, tosses it into the river, and then hurries into the night.

Eastern Siberia, 1919 -- Lieutenant Radola Viest rubbed his hands together, the cold piercing even his thick gloves. His breath formed clouds of steam in the chilly air as he tried unsuccessfully to breath warmth into his hands.

   He looked down the length of the armored train at the many other soldiers in their dark green greatcoats, rifles slung over their shoulders. The train had been stopped here for weeks now, and well-worn trails led through the snow into the surrounding Siberian forests.

   It had been years now since any of them had seen their native Czechoslavakia. What a strange and bizarre journey, fighting their way across the entirety of Russia, just to try to get home.

   Lt Viest had last seen his wife Ana in 1916. Drafted into the Austro-Hungarian army, he was captured by the Russians. With the promise Russia would liberate Czechoslovakia from Austro-Hungary and allow a free Czechoslovak Republic, Viest and 60,000 other Czechs and Slovaks had joined the "Czechoslovak Legion" of the Russian Army.

   Back then he had been filled with dreams of soon returning home a hero, with a triumphant liberating army of native Czechoslovaks.

   But then the Russian Revolution happened. And the communist Bolshevik government negotiated a peace treaty with Germany and Austro-Hungary, which forbade the repatriation of the Czechoslovak Legion.
   They couldn't cross the front lines to the West, so instead they'd fought their way East along the trans-Siberian railroad. East across the nearly 6,000 miles of Siberia.

   The Czechoslovak Legion found itself the most powerful force in Siberia in the Russian Civil War, controlling vast swathes of territory and important cities, when all they ever wanted was to return home.

   But now here they were, within days of the port of Vladivostok, from where they could evacuate and continue East without having to fight for every foot, but now the anti-communist forces considered them too indispensible to allow them to leave.
   Admiral Kolchak, the "last hope of a free Russia," who promised to resign as "Supreme Leader" and have national elections as soon as he defeated the communists was relying on them.

   A light snow began to fall. Viest eyed the frozen landscape sourly.


   Another bundled-up lieutenant appeared out of the swirling white mists and approached Viest. The end of a cigarette in his mouth glowed red in the otherwise colourless air. "Radjko, I think we have a solution"
   "What's that?" asked Viest, skeptically.
   "Well, there's talk of handing over Kolchak to the Bolsheviks in exchange for being allowed to leave"
   Viest nodded without saying anything, and removed a flask of vodka from his coat.

alexpgp

972 AD, Jorvik, England - A light rain falls as Olaf walks down a narrow street. On either side he passes narrow houses made of wattle (woven twigs) and posts. Woodsmoke swirls out of special openings in the thatched roofs. Over the rooftops to the north can be seen one of the few stone buildings -- a mysterious people known as "Romans" had built various amazing stone buildings across the land that were still standing nearly 500 years after the Romans left. In this case the tower had once been part of the gatehouse of a Roman fort. What had been a gatehouse tower to the Romans had been the royal palace of the Kingdom of Jorvik more recently, but even that was nearly twenty years ago. Now Jorvik belongs to the kingdom of the Anglish and Earl Oslac rules from Jorvik's tower.

   But the former glory of Jorvik isn't much on Olaf's mind as he traverses the smelly trash-filled streets. He's a large grizzly fellow with a huge red beard. He ducks into the dimly-lit interior of a tavern.
   "Ah there you are you old rogue!" his friend Knut jovially greats him, standing up from behind a table. Knut has trouble standing completely straight in the low room due to his immense height. He's not merely tall, and he's not fat, but he's big. Proportionately big. If you were to see him by himself you might not realize it, but when there's something at hand to scale him by one notices he's simply huge. His huge blonde beard does nothing to diminish his eternally good natured countenance however.
   Olaf smiles kind of sheepishly and then lets out a grumble as he seats himself. He waves over the serving girl and orders some mutton, bread, and ale.
   "So how's that chair coming along anyway?" asks Knut, taking a guess at the source of his friend's groans.
   "Oh, I've almost got it I think." says Olaf with determination. He's not a carpenter, but once beginning the project the goal oriented fellow will not let a simple stool get the better of him.
   "I'm going to make a stool that will last a thousand years!" he proclaims so loudly it startles a nearby man with a grey beard, one eye, and a broad brimmed hat, and then takes a large swig of his pine ale (hops would not be used in beer making in the country for more than another 400 years).

   Various finer points of viking stool making are discussed as the mutton and bread arrive. Knut, with stew dripping down his beard and a wooden spoon in one hand comments
   "You know, Olaf, you might feel better if you ate a vegetable now and then."
   "Bah!" scoffs Olaf "rabbit food never did a man any good! ... besides I have a better solution."
   "Whatsh that?" asks Knut with a leek hanging from his mouth
   Olaf produces a small round smooth stone. "It's a bezoar stone I bought at the market today. These things are supposed to cure any poison." Grizzly though he may look, Olaf has enough discretion not to go into detail at the dinner table about the intestinal discomfort he's been having lately. He plunks it proudly into his ale tankard and toasts with it.
   "They find those things in the guts of cows and other beasts don't they?" inquires Knut curiously, peering into Olaf's wooden tankard.
   "But how does it get there?" asks Olaf knowingly, "cows don't eat stones! It's the very embodiment of the spirits of digestion... or something!" he cavalierly declines to deeply study the theology behind it.
   "So.. you're going to swallow that??" asks Knut incredulously.
   "No, no, no, you just put it in your drink and its powers are absorbed by the ale," says Olaf, absently examining the joints on a nearby chair.

   A few hours and several tankards of ale later Olaf is stumbling home, when he feels the call of nature. He quickly ducks down an alley and squats over a muddy pool by the bank as his bowels begin to rumble. Maybe the magic stone is starting to work, he wonders. I don't mean to alarm you dear reader, but it's been a few days since he was last able to make a bowel movement. A noise erupts from his posterior that is so rude Olaf feels a little embarrassed, and somewhere nearby a small child begins to cry. His leaving quickly disappears into the muddy water. Olaf hurriedly pulls a handful of straw off the nearby roof thatch and wipes his rump with it, and then hurries into the night.

   193,000 BC, Africa – From above, under the thick clouds and through the heavy rain, it is hard to distinguish anything on the rolling hills below. The frequent flashes of lightning, however, bring out a rugged landscape of trees and shrubs and rock outcroppings in sharp relief for several seconds before disappearing into the murk again.

   In the back of a cave below, Prome huddles under a pile of furs and skins with the other seven members of his family. In the middle of their cave a pile of branches, sticks and tinder sits distinctly not on fire. The piece of charcoal that is meant to be kept constantly smoldering to start fires with had gone out some time ago, leaving them with no fire. No heat, cooking, or light, and this storm had been raging for days now.

   A blinding flash fills the cavern as lightning strikes particularly close, followed immediately by the reverberating KRAKOWWWWww of thunder. Branches explode off a short tree or bush on a nearby hilltop in a shower of sparks. Slowly, snakes of flame creep up the tree and dance into the sky. An orange glow spills out into the formerly monochromatic landscape around the burning bush.
   Prome and his father Iape both jump up to get a better look at the fire. It's probably only half a mile away but it's over dark, wet, rugged landscape. Still though, they really need that fire. Prome, middle aged at 22, says to Iape "you stay here, I'm going to go get fire."
   Prome wraps a fur cloak around himself tightly and clasping his trusty spear he hurries outside.

   Prome is at once buffeted by the wet gusting wind. He steps carefully amid the slippery limestone scree on the hillside and makes his way down the dark slope. Slowly he makes is way down among the boulders and dripping shrubbery. He keeps a vigilant eye out for dangerous animals but he doesn’t discern anything in the gloom other than trees and bushes waving wildly in the wind.
   A normally placid stream between the two hills has grown to a raging torrent. Prome eyes it with concern. He looks up to the hilltop, where an orange glow can still be seen. His family urgently needs the fire, there can be no turning back now! Hopefully the fire on the hilltop won’t be out by the time he can get there.
   Finding the narrowest spot, Prome takes a running jump off a rock and lands with a squelch in the loam amid the tall grass on the other side of the stream. He hopes he’ll be able to make that same jump on the return while holding his spear AND a burning branch.
   He begins the ascent. Lightning momentarily illuminates the left half of everything in front of him.

   At last Prome arrives before the burning bush. Several baboons that had been huddled around it for warmth scatter with startled hoots. Prome basks in the blessedly hot glow, such a wonderful feeling after being so cold and wet for so long.
   He only allows himself a moment of basking, however, glancing back anxiously at the opposite slope where his cold family is waiting. Furthermore he feels a bit exposed up here on the hilltop. The fire, burning like a beacon, is liable to attract the attention of any living thing in the vicinity. He finds a good sized branch that is only burning on one half, retrieves it from the conflagration, and, mentally bracing himself for the cold, turns his back to the warm glow and steals away into the night.

   He wouldn't make it home with the burning branch, however.


   Indeed, seen from above, the fire on the mountain is a singular landmark among the otherwise inscrutable dark undulating hills. Expertly surfing the violent buffets of the wind on its 20 foot wingspan, an enormous eagle, a teratorn, comes to investigate the fire. Even with the excellent vision of an eagle there’s not much to see in the darkness anywhere else anyway, and an eagle’s got to eat.
   Something else catches the eagle’s eye however. Moving down the slope from the fire there seems to be a smaller piece of fire bobbing around in a most unnatural manner. The eagle cocks its head to better examine this strange happening. Piercing through the rain and darkness the eagle is able to discern after a moment that it appears to be one of those smart relatively hairless apes carrying a burning branch. Not as much meat on their bones as some other things, but no tough hairy hide either. The teratorn commences several banking turns to put itself in position to dive upon its prey.

   Prome notices a disturbing sound above him in the nick of time, glances up just in time to dive out of the way as a huge bird of prey plants its dagger-line talons in the ground where he’d just been standing. Letting out an angry screech the monster bird knocks him over and tries to rip out his liver with its horrible hooked beak.
   Prome instinctively bashes it in the head with the burning branch, causing it to pull back with an outraged squawk. He continues the initiative with a lunge with his spear but the eagle knocks the pole out of his hand with a giant wing. The eagle attacks again and Prome again bashes it with all his strength with the flaming branch. As he does so he loses his footing and slips down the wet grass of the hillside. He goes careening through bushes and off rocks, holding desperately onto the burning branch.

   Prome lies dazed for a moment in the damp aromatic thicket of fennel he’s finally come to a rest in. Despite the wild ride he doesn’t seem to have any major injuries, nothing broken. The branch is barely burning any more but it should be enough if he can hurry it back to the cave. Prome tenses for another attack from the eagle.


   Large green spots. Blinking and shaking its head, that’s all the eagle can see. Those humans, they aren’t particularly dangerous foes usually, but they can pull some strange tricks, and being wacked in the head a few times with fire does a number to your night vision. Looks like hunting time is over for now, best get back to the safety of the heavens. With a few heavy flaps of its great wings the teratorn takes to the air.

   Prome wearily approaches the rocky scree near his cave. Almost home!
   A rock underfoot skids across the one below it in a shower of sparks, sending the exhausted torch bearer tumbling backwards again.
   He lands with a splash into a large puddle and the branch disappears underwater with a sizzle. He yanks it out and, slowly getting to his feet, he looks at it with extreme concern. It is totally out. He looks at his nearby cave and back at the faraway hilltop where the fire on the tree is starting to subside itself, incredulous at this disastrous luck.


   After a few moments, Prome thoughtfully approaches the two rocks which had made sparks against each other.