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Old June 28, 2002, 13:19   #1
Sigmond
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Kani the Egyptian Dreams
Kani dreamed of the jungle, and of the war long ago.

High above the land, where the gods dwelt, was the sun that heated the world, but in the jungle, you wouldn’t know about the sun except for the heat. Hot, dark, and wet, this was the jungle. It was the land gone mad, to hear the priests tell it, the priests who knew only the fertile plains to the north that stretched forever, it seemed. Go south, they said, and the land died. In the desert, everything died. And after the desert, there was this jungle that was bigger than the Aegytian Empire itself. The jungle was crazy, and it made anyone who went into it, went under its high, verdant canopy, into its deep shadows. It was sacrilege to go into the jungle, out of sight of Horus and Re, crazy. Jungle fever, which the romans called mors umber, the shadow death, was Osiris’ retribution. When iron was discovered in the middle of the heathen jungle, where the land itself turned its back on its creators, the priests were quieted.

Iron. The word was massive, huge, spanning the continent and the world. It rung metallic and warlike in the ears and minds of men everywhere. Hiawatha, to the west on his cold peninsula, must wail at his people’s crude science, that this word which moved like cold, gray lightning in the sky presented such a mystery to him. Alexander south of the tropics hears the word, but the Americans and the Aztecs, who are too busy out doing each other with foolish slaughter, bar the path his hoplites would carve through the jungle. So only Aegypt and its Queen, Cleopatra, the Golden Empire, the Reed Nation, whose coffers and pantries overflow, whose chariots are unmatched in the world, whose borders stretch longer than any other, and Rome and its Emperor, Caesar, the Ruby Empire, the Nation of Gladiators, whose Odia and Circi and amphitheatres are alive with drama, sport, and rhetoric, friend of Aegypt, lying south and east, across the Uran Desert. Iron is a word like Peace, only sharper. It is a word like War, only fiercer. In Rome, the word for Iron and the word for Sword are the same word: Ferrum.

Rome marched its archers hide-armored and its spearmen bronze-clad and equipped west into the jungles. War chariots roll out of Thebes and Memphis and Giza and Alexandria, they pour like quick honey, like rye wine out of Aegypt, south and to the west, south and to the east, into the jungle and into Rome. The Bellum Ferri, the War of Iron, had begun.

Kani dreamed of Cleopatra in the golden palace at Thebes, in pain.

“Caesar is a friend,” she said quietly. She stood at an opening in the wall of the palace. It was not quite a window, not quite a door, but more of an artful hole, large and well masoned, in the wall. There was always a festival in Thebes, and she was looking out down the Golden Path filled with people and street performers, though she did not see it. Mefhotep shook his head and tsked.

“My Queen, my Queen,” he said cajolingly, “Caesar is wise, and he will understand. The both of you will understand; you knew long ago that the greatness in each of your nations would not, could not coexist without conflict, and while the centuries have been kind between Aegypt and Rome, who have shared knowledge and wealth and happiness, now there is something which cannot be shared.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice became quieter, more stern. “Now,” he declared solemnly, “there is something which must not be shared.”

Cleopatra turned around slowly, and examined her trusted advisor carefully. She was aware that armorers wished to use the iron to make swords for a new breed of warrior. She was aware that the Romans had given them this secret in trade, and that surely they must have similar plans, but Mefhotep’s declaration and his boldness belied something more urgent even than an army of enemy swordsmen whose steel ferri would easily cleave bronze armor as though it were bread. “What are you saying, my advisor? What secrets do you keep from your queen?” There was no hint of a threat in her voice. All of the threat was in her eyes and the piercing gaze sharper than any sword. Mefhotep moved closer, slouched and head bowed with humility.

“My Queen, my Goddess, the Romans have secrets they will not share. Their archers and spearmen are as ours, only under a different banner in a foreign tongue, and just as our chariots are faster and sturdier than theirs, so would be their swordsmen.”

“What is this? Come, what are you saying?”

“Oh, my Pharaoh, they have plans--drawings--I have seen them, of banded armor, of thick, studded shields, an of sturdy swords called gladii, vicious beyond what war has heretofore known. I have seen documents about the organization of new armies, called Legions, and fierce tactics our chariots, our mighty chariots, will fall to pieces against. The Crimson Cloth of Caesar’s banner will be as a bloody pall, and Aegypt will run red with Legionnaires and Aegyptian blood.” Cleopatra did not know what to say. She turned from her advisor, who had grown desperate in his voice and in his expression. “My queen,” he practically shouted, “Mars stirs! Caesar est ad portam!

Caesar is at the gate.

Caesar had seven years on Cleopatra, had known about the iron for that long, but had been unable to move. Now, even has his
saggitarii and hastati approached the center of the thick jungle, where the canopy parted and a string of hills rose up, hills rich in iron, the Sun Banner and the Reed moved south. The statio at Lutetia reported seeing advance Aegyptian troops in the desert there, spreading out. Caesar closed his eyes and envisioned parallel ruts in the desert racing toward Rome, seat of his empire. He envisioned a wind coming and brushing the ruts away and the hoof prints that carried them onward. He was smiling now. He would be the wind; his Legions would be his gladius and he would brush them all away.

Caesar is at the gate.


In the jungle, the air was sticky and tangled with life and the leavings of life. Vines and foliage and flowers and silky webs and mounds that are dens collapse underfoot and burrows that trip the unwary. During the day, an eerie silence settles over the the dark wood, and at night, a terrifying cacophony of animal sounds erupts everywhere. Many have already died from the fever that used to be divine justice and is now some Roman trickery, a hex from Juno, proclaim the priests. Many have abandoned the column and wandered off. None of the officers worried overmuch about the deserters: the jungle would kill them. Discipline is hard to maintain in the jungle. Everything is hard to maintain in the jungle. The chariots move so slowly among the cramped trees. They lag behind the infantry. An advance party of arches was sent out two days ago to find the iron hills. They should be back today, or tomorrow. For some reason, every night when the army gathers to attend temple in some clearing, the pale and nervous priest reminds everyone of the afterlife. “We will all be judged,” he says.

We will all be judged.

Kani dreams of a new heat, a dry heat and a beating sun where the gods killed the land and built a barrier between Aegypt and her nemeses.


The Romans call this desert Fossa Calculi Aurei, the Trench of Golden Pebbles. Here the chariots move swiftly, ranging far ahead of the infantry. Still, the heat is harsh, but the priests at night do not speak of the afterlife and the alligator who eats the sinful. Instead they tell the tales of victory, of Mentu and Horus. They carry out the proper rights under the clear, desert sky. Still, the charioteers and the infantrymen, especially, would envy some shade. They wear cloth around their heads to keep off the burning rays of the sun. They wear loose sleeved shirts to protect their arms, yet keep them cool. The chariots race, but must stop to rest the horses often. The infantry march, well watered, well disciplined, and soon the ramparts of Lutetia are in sight, shimmering almost magically on the horizon. The generals call a halt, the priests begin to organize a small clebration, the soldiers begin to organize themselves.

We who are about to die…

Aegyptus delendus est.

Latin blood for Latin land.

For Caesar.

These are the battle cries of the
statio of Lutetia. They stand in fossae just outside the walls. They stand on the walls, the muri themselves. They rattle spear on shield, the carmen hastae, song of the spear, its called. Arrows pierce the air, pierce the sand: the chariots move too fast. Behind the chariots, spearmen in yellow armor march across the low dunes. Chariots crash into Roman infantry and run them over. They jump the trench full of sharpened stakes, they kill more men, and they turn and retreat across the sands, behind the spearmen who come onward. All the archers are dead. The spearmen move up to the gates. They take bridges the Romans laid down across the trenches. They take the gatehouse. They take the city.

Caesar slams down his fist in Rome. He orders more soldiers to the border cities. There will be no counterattack, yet. Wait for the iron, wait for the Legion. The messenger leaves and another enters. He is red in the face, mutters, “
Litterae,” mutters, “Equum vehens neccabam,” mutters, “Aqua,” collapses.

Letters.

I killed my horse riding here.

Water.

The letter says they found the iron. The letter says they built a city. The letter says the road should be done in a month. The letter says there’s a column in the jungle a week away, the Aegyptians are coming. Caesar lets the letter fall and looks out over Rome. The Aegyptians are here.


Aegyptani sunt ad portam!” cries a sentinel. The Latin travels from lip to lip at a shout along the perimeter of the small city. The Aegyptians are at the gate. Spearmen rush to the mud walls, to the shallow trenches filled with paluli, little wooden stakes. Vines stretch across the front of the trench in rows three feet apart, six rows. Spearmen rush forward in golden bronze armor, their tunics poking out, yellow. The trip over the lines, over each other, they fall in the ditch onto the spikes. Those that make it across, that survive the tripwires, the spikes, the stray weapons of fratricide are skewerd by hastate. The archers begin to fire. The Aegyptians flee back into the jungle. No Roman loses his life.

Cleopatra overturns a table in Thebes. Maps, paperweights, and an oil lamp fly. Mefhotep catches the globe of the lamp, drops it for its heat, and narrowly avoids the splash of oil that sets the floor ablaze. Kurphed pulls the map away from the burning stone and his aid throws a tapestry from the wall over it. Mefhotep has a vase of water and Kurphed’s aid takes it from him, throws it on the tapestry.

“You’ve ruined a work of art,” Mefhotep sqeals.

“I put out the fire,” replies the aid.

“With a tapestry? I had the water! I had it!”

“The water,” Kurphed tells Mefhotep levelly, like a soldier, the way he does everything, with the momentum of his entire life behind it, “would have spread the fire by spreading the oil. You must smother oil fires.” Satisfied, he turns back to his Queen, who is not impressed by the lesson in practical firefighting.

“They have a city. They are building a road. They destroyed the army we sent to secure the very spot they occupy. Kurphed, we are losing this war.”

“Queen Cleopatra, we brought no archers.”

“General Kurphed, you had chariots.”

“The chariots do not maneuver in the jungle. They were ambushed and burned, the charioteers killed.”

“Then we must take more cities in the east.”

“We must take Rome.” The air in the room is alive with silence. It constricts Mefhotep and the general’s aid with tension.

“No,” Cleopatra says softly.

“Queen Cleopatra, my Pharaoh, whatever Roman cities we take, they will take back with Legions. If we take Rome, it will break them, and we can get peace.”

“And the iron?”

“Jerusalem is built on high ground and fortified where we may not bring artillery or chariots. We may throw archers and spearmen at their walls, but it will be a battle of attrition, and by the time we might take the city, they will have Legions all over us, and all over eastern Aegypt.”

“How long until the road is built.”

“Three weeks.”

Cleopatra sits down heavily on a padded chair and buries her head in her hands, her elbows on her knees. She is not crying, she is weary. She is thinking, and not liking her thoughts, but her duty is to her people, the people of the Golden Reed.

“Mefhotep, my advisor,” she sighs, “Send for everyone. Hiawatha, Alexander, Lincoln, even the Aztech brute, what’s his name?”

“I- I cannot pronounce it, my Queen,” Mefhotep admits.

“You can spell it, send for him anyway. They must be here, or have delegates with authority here within a week. One week,” she emphasizes, “Or I shall be very put-out with them.

“Kurphed, take more cities in the east and send archers into the jungle. Stop the road from being built, stop them mining the iron.”

“My queen,” Kurphed says as he bows. He turns and leaves the room. His aid bows and backs his way out of the room. Mefhotep has already left in an effeminate hurry to dispatch messages across the entire continent.

Kani dreams of a meeting, not in Thebes, but in Mendes, just north of the jungle, the Uran Sea between it and Lutetia to the east. Hiawatha wants the secret of iron working for his alliance. Alexander wants gold. Lincoln wants furs. The Aztec brute wants only maps, directions to Rome. The deal is sealed on the festival of Anubis, who leads the dead to the underworld to be judged. The leaders depart and marshal armies a week’s distance from battle.

Roman horse have been marauding near Busiris. Scurii reads their banner: desperados. Bandits.

“Meddlers,” says Kurphed, and assures his Queen of their unimportance. He has taken two more cities and will take no more, but he will pillage the countryside. He has stopped the road from Rome. His archers are becoming seasoned. He tells her all this.

“Hiawatha’s warriors are coming,” she says, “Greek Hoplites are coming. American spearmen are coming. Jaguar warriors are coming.”

“How long?” the general asks.
“A week.” Kurphed nods approvingly. “Kurphed, build a road to Jerusalem. Take some laborers and whatever slaves there are and carve a road to the iron. Then you can send the chariots and the catapults and take Jerusalem.”

“Yes, Queen Cleopatra.”

Kani dreams of a meeting in Pompeii. The city fell a week ago to the Aegyptians. Roman armies mill around several miles from its walls. There are a few catapults in the mix: huge constructions of timber and rope. When they move, they creek from tension in the wood and cords. When they fire, there is a terrible sound like a whip cracking, but thunderous. The men shout as the boulders fly. The Romans are not firing on the city: they are adjusting the catapult’s aim.

Praetor Gaius has been invited to the city to speak with the Aegyptian commander. He takes his qaestor with him, and three centurions.


Ave, Imperator,” says the Aegyptian general.

Te ave,” replies the Roman. He is not being rude: he is the guest, this is how guests behave. When in Rome…

They sit and are brought food, some domestic, some imported. They talk, some in Aegyptian, mostly in Latin. Even today, Latin is the language of scholars and philosophers. Egyptian is the language of science and commerce.

They talk of the war, of the victories of the Aegyptians, of the exploits of the Scurii, of Jerusalem and the roads.

“I know,” says Gaius in heavily accented Aegyptian, “Caesar knows, everybody knows about Cleopatra’s alliance. Everybody knows the war is over. It’s only--,” he looks at his quaestor, says res temporis and waves his hand uncertainly.

“A matter of time,” his quaestor suppliess. Gaius snaps his fingers and nods. Sic, sic.

They drink French wine, from far to the south. It’s so dark it’s almost blue and very, very alcoholic. They are singing before the night is over, sad songs, in Aegyptian and Latin.

Kani dreams

The workers have axes and machetes and shovels and plows and rakes and carts loaded with salt. They cut away the trees, and the sun comes through, and it is hotter. They cut away the bush and underbrush and it is hotter. They overturn the soil and push aside the foliage, and it is hotter. They plow and salt the earth where the road will be, and it is so hot and so humid the hafts on the tools begin to bend. They work anyway, cutting the road out of the jungle.

They move fast and pull workers in from everywhere. Here are slaves from Giza, from the Pyramid site. Here are slaves from Memphis where the Lighthouse is being built. Here are Roman workers brought from the east over the Uran Sea and down from Mendes.

There are spearmen and archers guarding the road. There are priests talking about rewards in the afterlife, in Aaru, rewards in this life, in the rich streets of Elephantine and Pi-Rameses. Chariots come after a few days. Catapults follow a day later. They are close to the iron, to Jerusalem. Scouts climb trees and say they see the hills and the smoke from the mines and from the city. The slaves build the road.

The Aegyptian road will be done in one week. For every one day’s work the Romans do, Aegyptian raiders swoop down and destroy two. The Romans are weeks behind.

A day from Jerusalem, construction slows. Teams of workers are pulled off to clear spaces in the jungle, to build palisade walls around the thicket, to build paths to the iron mines. They dig rolling ditches yards from the walls, so that men running toward the fortification will trip, tire, and fall, so that horses will stumble and go lame, so that chariots which will not come will shatter under the turbulence.

The next day, archers and spearmen from the fortifications seize the mines. The palisades are torn into segments and brought to the hill and rebuilt. The catapults arrive and begin shelling Jerusalem. The chariots arrive. It has been a week. The allies are due.

Sakawhana rides hard east through the jungle. His horses are agile and swift. They dodge the trees with skill. Heavier units, artillery, infantry, are moving north through Aegypt along the roads there. Sakawhana swings south to avoid the conflict at Jerusalem and strikes into southern Rome. There are Americans already here, in Neapolis, waving flags and blowing things up. There are Aztec jaguar warriors moving like thieves in the jungle, ambushing stray Roman workers and light units. The Greeks are prowling the roads, waylaying caravans and tearing up the countryside. Sakawhana has his orders. He will not tarry in the hills and prairie, he will take cities. Sakawhana rides toward Rome.

Last edited by Sigmond; June 28, 2002 at 20:22.
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Old June 28, 2002, 13:21   #2
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Dream On, Kani
In the night, Aegyptian infantry sneak forward and cut the trip wires. They drag ladders behind them and slide them across the ditches. The chariots are ready to fly across the bridge when it’s opened. The spearmen huddle against he walls with their shields above their heads. Soon, the catapults will launch burning oil and light up the night. The ladders will go up, and the spearmen will mount he walls and open the gates.

Archers have started firing. A bell rings. There’s a noise like thunder as the sky seems to catch fire with oil and the ladders rise as one. Many are pushed back down, but enough are up, and more follow. The garrison is overwhelmed. Ten minutes, and the gates are opened. The catapults continue to provide light as the chariots roar into Jerusalem. The fighting is fierce and long, and the fires claim the city. There are few quarters standing by the dawn. Jerusalem has been sacked and burned. The next day the road arrives at the ruins. Workers begin to clear the rubble. Hundreds of people arrive later and begin erecting a new city. A week ago, in Thebes, Cleopatra had given the order to Mefhotep.

“When the city falls, if it is destroyed, rebuild it. Call it Jerusalem, again. Keep it Roman.”

Keep it Roman.

Kani dreams of peace. When Kurphed himself sacked Antium as a bridge in territory south of the Uran region, Caesar demanded an audience with Cleopatra. They met in Busiris.

They were alone. Caesar was a tall man with broad shoulders in his stately Roman tunic. Cleopatra was flowing with fabric and jewels, tall herself, but not quite so as Caesar. She entered the room where he was standing, admiring the art. When he saw her, he smiled, and she smiled too, but there was sadness in all four eyes in the room.

“Caesar,” she said.

“Cleopatra,” he said, “What have you done?” She stopped coming forward. He had his arms crossed, his right hand stroking his chin.

“I’ve won. This had to happen, you know it.”

“Can you call them off, Cleopatra? Can you make them stop?”

Cleopatra dropped her eyes and shook her head.

“The Americans and Aztecs have fallen into war again, so they will give you no more trouble. The Greeks are too busy keeping the Americo-Aztec war confined, and they will leave you alone also. But the Iroquois are mad for battle. I cannot stop them.”

Caesar nodded sadly.

“Cleopatra,” he said, “Take care of my people.”

“I’m sorry?” she said, flustered. His hands fell militarily to his side. He walked over to her swiftly.

“Cleopatra, you are my friend.” His Aegyptian was perfect. “Yet, you have brought this down on my head and on all Roman heads. Our Empire is crumbling: Hispalis, Veii, and Rome hold on by a thread. A month, maybe less. But you, you must be the custodia, the guardian of my Empire. It is in the hands of the Iroquois and the Americans. Take it back, Cleopatra. Take it from them and make it glorious.” He came over to Cleopatra and kissed her hand. “Hail,” he said, “and fairwell.” Caesar, the Red Prince, the Crimson Emperor, left the room in a flourish of his blood-colored cloak. That night, he rode out of Busiris and back to Hispalis.

Kani dreamed. In a month, Rome fell. Hispalis and Veii soon followed. Caesar died in a hole dug by the Iroquois and filled with rainwater. He drowned.
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Old June 28, 2002, 14:16   #3
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Amazing story, keep it up. BTW I really like the use of latin and thoughts.
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Old June 28, 2002, 18:26   #4
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quite immediate... I read the shorter section and it was farily good
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Old June 28, 2002, 19:51   #5
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wow.

normally I don't comment on typos but this is so good that you deserve to have a flawless script.

there's a line here that reads:
[I]Roman horse have been marauding near Busiris. [\i]Scurii reads their banner: desperados. Bandits.
I don't think you wanted the [\i][i] in there.


I really like this style. It's fresh. It's different. It has a real sense of urgency - of time flying by.

Amazing job!
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Old June 28, 2002, 20:24   #6
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Thankyou, all.
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Old June 30, 2002, 18:33   #7
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Righteous dude.
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