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If i don't post this now i'll never finish... Hope you like it! 
168 AD.
Rome.
The two men were drenched in sweat as the midday sun beat down on them. Daniel, the shorter of the two, slowly pivoted to his right to keep the other in front of him. His knees were bent; his sword held with both hands, pointed upward at the other man’s throat. He was about six inches shorter than his adversary but he was more muscular, stockier.
Marcus - the other man - was smiling, obviously enjoying himself. He somehow looked as if he was dancing. His every move were full of grace, from the way he shifted his sword from one hand to the other to the way he was circling around the shorter man, changing speed and direction without any apparent effort.
The two men were sizing each other up, neither of them willing to strike first… and then it happened
Marcus suddenly lunged forward, his sword pointed at the other’s eyes… but at the last moment he pulled back the tip of the blade just as Daniel tried to deviate it. Still moving forward, Marcus lowered the blade and turned it to the side, aiming the edge at the other’s neck.
Daniel was taken by surprise so he did the only thing he could: he abandoned his sword and grabbed Marcus’ left arm while at the same time he pivoted and shifted his weight down and to the left, yanking as hard as he could at the other man’s arm… and sending him flying over his shoulder.
As Marcus fell on his side, Daniel let himself fall on him, one of his knees over the arm that was holding the sword.
- Had enough? He asked, out of breath.
Marcus smiled.
- As if you could still go on…
Daniel got up laughing, offering his hand to his brother to help him get back up.
- First time I see you try to use deceit instead of speed, Daniel said as they walked over to the well. Maybe you will survive your first real swordfight after all.
Standing on the allure of the eastern wall, looking down at the two young men as they handed their wooden swords to their trainer, the emperor was smiling. Julius Ceasar liked to watch his sons train, even though he knew that they were now old enough to do more than just that. If there was to be a war, they would both be old enough to fight. His smile vanished as his mind went back to the Zulu threat.
He walked back inside the palace and to the large table where a crude map of the empire had been sketched out on a papyrus. Rome occupied almost 60% of the large continent. The Zulu homeland - accounting for 35% of the continent - was situated on the southeastern end, accessible only via a narrow band of land heavily fortified on both sides. It had been the Zulus misfortune… as well as their best protection. A land invasion was almost impossible and Caesar would not invest money in triremes or ask his scholars to pursue any type of research into sea transportation advances. He had embarked on one of the ships once and had been so sick he could not believe an army could launch an invasion that way.
Persia still held four cities in the north, but only one of them had any significance: Persepolis had remained a metropolis, even after the Roman invasion, still trading diamonds and silk and it operated iron mines in the hills to the west.
Caesar remembered how bad he had wanted to attack Persepolis back then, but his generals were right. They just did not have enough resources left and the Persian peace offer had come at the right time. Ceasar had crowned himself Emperor and the empire had flourished.
He could easily have invaded Persia now, but he kept pushing back the invasion date, again and again. He just could not do it now.
As his eyes locked on the map over the location of Persepolis, Ceasar smiled and whispered to himself.
- Come back safe my son. Come back soon…
**********************************
Persepolis – the same day.
Farekh picked up a handful of dirt and let it slip through his fingers onto the shroud covering the body of the man who, a very long time ago, had been his father. He didn’t wonder why he felt so detached, so cold about this. He’d known for some time that it was coming as the reports from the roman spies in Persepolis had warned him of the power struggle taking place in the Persian Empire.
Although he was now a grown man, Farekh could still vividly remember how he had been brought to Rome as a 6 year old boy, delivered into slavery by his father: Xerxes, King of Persia. He remembered the tears in the defeated man’s eyes as he had watched his only son leave for Rome. That was the price that he’d had to pay for the survival of the four cities that were left in his empire.
Farekh had never seen his father again, never written a letter to him or received one either. He had been raised as Roman, treated as if he had been Caesar’s own son and did not considered himself a Persian. Except for that faithful day, the day he had been exiled, he had no memories of his life in Persepolis or of his father.
Farekh looked up at the crowd of Persian dignitaries gathered around him.
He had been sent by Ceasar to represent the Roman Empire at the funeral. And although he could tell that these people looked at him as a possible heir to the throne, he had already told Ceasar and made it known in no uncertain terms in Persepolis that he had no desire to succeed Xerxes. His life was in Rome.
Karg, the other son of Xerxes by a second marriage, would inherit the throne. And that was fine with him.
As Farekh walked away, a gust of wind picked up the dust from the shroud and carried it towards the desert.
168 AD.
Rome.
The two men were drenched in sweat as the midday sun beat down on them. Daniel, the shorter of the two, slowly pivoted to his right to keep the other in front of him. His knees were bent; his sword held with both hands, pointed upward at the other man’s throat. He was about six inches shorter than his adversary but he was more muscular, stockier.
Marcus - the other man - was smiling, obviously enjoying himself. He somehow looked as if he was dancing. His every move were full of grace, from the way he shifted his sword from one hand to the other to the way he was circling around the shorter man, changing speed and direction without any apparent effort.
The two men were sizing each other up, neither of them willing to strike first… and then it happened
Marcus suddenly lunged forward, his sword pointed at the other’s eyes… but at the last moment he pulled back the tip of the blade just as Daniel tried to deviate it. Still moving forward, Marcus lowered the blade and turned it to the side, aiming the edge at the other’s neck.
Daniel was taken by surprise so he did the only thing he could: he abandoned his sword and grabbed Marcus’ left arm while at the same time he pivoted and shifted his weight down and to the left, yanking as hard as he could at the other man’s arm… and sending him flying over his shoulder.
As Marcus fell on his side, Daniel let himself fall on him, one of his knees over the arm that was holding the sword.
- Had enough? He asked, out of breath.
Marcus smiled.
- As if you could still go on…
Daniel got up laughing, offering his hand to his brother to help him get back up.
- First time I see you try to use deceit instead of speed, Daniel said as they walked over to the well. Maybe you will survive your first real swordfight after all.
Standing on the allure of the eastern wall, looking down at the two young men as they handed their wooden swords to their trainer, the emperor was smiling. Julius Ceasar liked to watch his sons train, even though he knew that they were now old enough to do more than just that. If there was to be a war, they would both be old enough to fight. His smile vanished as his mind went back to the Zulu threat.
He walked back inside the palace and to the large table where a crude map of the empire had been sketched out on a papyrus. Rome occupied almost 60% of the large continent. The Zulu homeland - accounting for 35% of the continent - was situated on the southeastern end, accessible only via a narrow band of land heavily fortified on both sides. It had been the Zulus misfortune… as well as their best protection. A land invasion was almost impossible and Caesar would not invest money in triremes or ask his scholars to pursue any type of research into sea transportation advances. He had embarked on one of the ships once and had been so sick he could not believe an army could launch an invasion that way.
Persia still held four cities in the north, but only one of them had any significance: Persepolis had remained a metropolis, even after the Roman invasion, still trading diamonds and silk and it operated iron mines in the hills to the west.
Caesar remembered how bad he had wanted to attack Persepolis back then, but his generals were right. They just did not have enough resources left and the Persian peace offer had come at the right time. Ceasar had crowned himself Emperor and the empire had flourished.
He could easily have invaded Persia now, but he kept pushing back the invasion date, again and again. He just could not do it now.
As his eyes locked on the map over the location of Persepolis, Ceasar smiled and whispered to himself.
- Come back safe my son. Come back soon…
**********************************
Persepolis – the same day.
Farekh picked up a handful of dirt and let it slip through his fingers onto the shroud covering the body of the man who, a very long time ago, had been his father. He didn’t wonder why he felt so detached, so cold about this. He’d known for some time that it was coming as the reports from the roman spies in Persepolis had warned him of the power struggle taking place in the Persian Empire.
Although he was now a grown man, Farekh could still vividly remember how he had been brought to Rome as a 6 year old boy, delivered into slavery by his father: Xerxes, King of Persia. He remembered the tears in the defeated man’s eyes as he had watched his only son leave for Rome. That was the price that he’d had to pay for the survival of the four cities that were left in his empire.
Farekh had never seen his father again, never written a letter to him or received one either. He had been raised as Roman, treated as if he had been Caesar’s own son and did not considered himself a Persian. Except for that faithful day, the day he had been exiled, he had no memories of his life in Persepolis or of his father.
Farekh looked up at the crowd of Persian dignitaries gathered around him.
He had been sent by Ceasar to represent the Roman Empire at the funeral. And although he could tell that these people looked at him as a possible heir to the throne, he had already told Ceasar and made it known in no uncertain terms in Persepolis that he had no desire to succeed Xerxes. His life was in Rome.
Karg, the other son of Xerxes by a second marriage, would inherit the throne. And that was fine with him.
As Farekh walked away, a gust of wind picked up the dust from the shroud and carried it towards the desert.
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