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Post by williamdellinger on May 11, 2016 21:26:29 GMT
Chapter IA
Alexander of Macedon
Alexander awoke, free from any pain for what felt like the first time in an eternity. He took several slow, measured breaths to make sure his stomach wouldn't cramp again or that his muscles wouldn't spasm. He reached for his face, wiping his eyes, his arms and legs stiff as if he had been asleep for a very long time.
He took note of his surroundings. There was none of the hot, dry heat Alexander had become used to, only the clear smell of northern trees and dark soil. He must've been asleep for far longer than he had thought, enough time for his army to move him north and west, back to Greece. There was something missing, though, possibly the salt that wasn't in the air, or the citrus he couldn't smell. It couldn't be Greece; somewhere else on the campaign, then. Somewhere away from the fighting, for him to recover.
His first thought was for his army. His generals would have taken care of them, made sure none had deserted. He would return to them, readying them for his Arabian campaign. Arrangements would have to be made, quickly. He couldn't let the civilizations of Southern Arabia prepare for his armies.
He sat up, getting a good look at the room for the first time. The walls and floors were wooden, wood turned far more carefully and precise than he had ever seen. Other than the bed, there was a small table beside it and a chest at the foot of the bed. The architecture was different as well, with beams running across the ceiling for support. There was a square window at the end of the room, letting the light in. Alexander could see the tops of trees through the window and heard birds singing. There was still something off about the room, something he couldn't quite place.
He was alone. For the one of the few times in his life, Alexander was completely alone. No companions beside him, no slaves scurrying around at the outside of his vision, no attendants waiting for his whims. Surely there would be an apothecary or healer nearby, after he had just survived an extended illness. He saw a door at the other end of the room and assumed someone would be just outside.
When he saw a clay cup on the table beside the bed, he realized he was incredibly thirsty and his head began to pound. He drank, the cool, clear water temporarily sating his thirst. He wanted more.
“Water!” he yelled, to the unseen slave. “And bring wine as well!”
He put the cup back on the table and removed the sheets from his legs. He was dressed in a rough tunic, thick wool, like something he'd wear beneath his armor on campaign. His head began to pound in earnest when he stood, and his legs shook beneath him. His muscles began to ache as well from the exertion, but he still felt better. Whatever the healers had used had certainly worked.
Alexander walked to the window, the wood floor hard beneath his bare feet. It wasn't until he reached the window that he realized it was made of glass. He marveled at the craftsmanship and the clarity of the pieces and the way they were set into the wood. Alexander leaned in close, wondering how such glass was made. It was so clear that he could see his reflection in it.
The reflection that peered back at him wasn't the face he was used to. It seemed younger, less haggard. His hands were also younger, without any of the tiny scars on his hands and wrists that he had accumulated over the years. A further check proved that the rest of his body was similarly unscathed.
His head pounded in tandem with his heart and he looked over to the door, wondering why the slave hadn't arrived with his wine. He took another look out the window, trying to figure out specifically where he was.
He had campaigned from Greece to Egypt to Persia to India and he had never seen these types of trees or birds or hills. This building didn't fit, either. Nothing about this place seemed right.
He looked out the window again, desperately trying to find something that seemed familiar. The moons hung low on the horizon, just over the mountains...
Wait.
There are two moons in the sky.
Two moons.
He started screaming when he realized where he was. He was dead. This was the afterlife.
The room spun and he hit the floor on his hands and knees, the pain distant. His breath caught in his throat and his heart stopped. He gasped for air, but his lungs wouldn't open. His vision narrowed, the edges of his sight blurring.
No.
No, no, no, no. This can't be it. There's so much left to do.
He fell on his back, his head hitting the floor hard. He arched his back trying to breathe, but it wouldn't come.
The door flew open and a woman ran in. She rushed to his side and kneeled, cradling his head in her lap. She grabbed his hand and brushed his damp hair out of his face, speaking softly to him.
“It's going to be okay. I need you to calm down and breathe.”
Alexander rolled over and looked at the woman. She was beautiful, dark hair framing a small face and big brown eyes staring down at him. She took his hand and held it, continuing to brush his face.
“Shhh. Everything is going to be okay. You're safe. Nothing can hurt you now.”
There was something in her voice, something that calmed his racing heart and let the air back into his lungs. He gulped air, his throat raw and burning. Alexander grabbed her tunic and pulled her close. “Where am I? Am I dead?”
Her beautiful face fell slightly and there was a grand sadness in her eyes. “We will explain everything later. I just need you to keep breathing.”
Alexander closed his eyes, his heart starting to pound again.
“Shhh. My name is Audrey. You're going to be fine, I promise.”
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stevep
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Post by stevep on May 11, 2016 23:22:38 GMT
Well he's going to have a hell of a culture shock.  Seen a few of those stories, although not sure I've seen any completed. Mind you a couple of years since I left Ah so don't know what's been on there. |
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Post by williamdellinger on May 12, 2016 0:12:31 GMT
Well he's going to have a hell of a culture shock. Seen a few of those stories, although not sure I've seen any completed. Mind you a couple of years since I left Ah so don't know what's been on there. This is the fourth time I've started this story, but I've changed it a good bit since then. I put it down and then came back to it about two weeks ago. So, hopefully I can finish this version. Thanks for commenting. |
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lordroel
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Post by lordroel on May 12, 2016 3:17:17 GMT
Is that Alexander the great who has been send back to a place most likely not earth.
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Post by williamdellinger on May 12, 2016 7:50:55 GMT
Chapter 1B
Hannibal Barca
The chair that Hannibal sat in was roughly formed wood, matching the dozen round tables in the large room, each surrounded by virtual twins of Hannibal's own chair. He still wasn't sure what was going on, but the woman upstairs had calmed him down enough to get him down to the others.
The others were around fifty men and a few women all sitting around those tables, all with the same shocked and disturbed expression on their faces. It was the same expression he was sure was on his own. The silence was the only constant in the room, even with so many occupants. They all sat, a slight murmur here, a whisper there. No one wanted to break the silence hanging over the room.
The massive room looked suspiciously like the common room of an inn or tavern, large windows letting in the bright light filtered through trees, a massive fireplace against one wall, and a long bar sitting opposite. Hannibal didn't know what to make of any of it, only that he had been awake for less than an hour in this strange place.
There were three men sitting across the table from him, each with a piece of parchment in front of them. They were all young men, the same age Hannibal appeared to be. That was another shock to a sixty-five year old man, to suddenly be in the body of a twenty year old.
The one on Hannibal's left was slight, with dark hair and calculating eyes. He was dangerous in the way that a snake was dangerous; that much Hannibal could see just by looking at him. He had been around men like that all his life, the unseen danger of a chessmaster.
Chessmaster. That word seemed strange in his head, like a word he had never heard before. But that was ridiculous. How could he have thought of a word he had never heard before?
The other two men were a study in contrasts. The middle one was big and lanky, with the look of a man throwing himself into his work to distract himself from his problems. He had the air of command, another type that Hannibal was intimately familiar with. It was in the way he sat, calm and in control. The third man was smaller and thinner and he moved in such a way that showed he was uncomfortable with his movements. He seemed afraid, but also curious, a footrace in a dead heat to find out which was the stronger emotion.
“Are you the ones that have brought me here?” Hannibal asked, interrupting the silence.
The one in the middle smiled softly. “I'm afraid not. We were brought here the same as you. We just happened to awake earlier.” He picked up a piece of charcoal and drew a line across his parchment, which was mostly filled with annotations. “When we awoke, we decided that the first thing we should do is get a list of all the people in this inn and hopefully figure out where here is and what we're doing here. We just have a few questions for you, if you feel up to answering them,” he said, obviously having said that many times today.
Hannibal nodded. “I will admit that I was quite shaken when I first awoke. Your woman, Lady Audrey, did much to calm me. She has quite the gentle touch.” Hannibal remembered the way she had spoken to him after finding him in his room, like someone soothing a spooked horse.
The man in the middle nodded. “Mrs. Hepburn has taken it upon herself to see to our well-being. She has certainly made a difference in many of our cases.”
Hannibal nodded. Such activities were better suited to women. “I see. Might I have your names, if we are to converse?”
The middle man looked surprised, as if he had forgotten something. “Of course, forgive me. It has been a trying day, for all of us,” he said. He gestured to himself, and then his companions in turn. “My name is Dwight Eisenhower, and my companions are Stephen Hawking and Niccolo Machiavelli.”
The lean, dangerous one was Machiavelli, then. He would remember that name and watch him very carefully. “Thank you, Master Eisenhower.” His tongue rolled over the odd, unfamiliar word. “My name is Hannibal Barca.”
Eisenhower gave a start, as if he recognized the name and the man before him. The other two did as well, though Machiavelli's look was more considered than surprised, as if he had been proven right by Hannibal's statement.
For a moment, Hannibal was hopeful. If they had recognized his name, then perhaps there were others here in the afterlife that would know him, or others that he would know. He wished very much to see his family again.
Eisenhower was the first to speak. “General Barca. It is an honor to have you among us,” he said, carefully noting the name on his parchment. The others were doing the same, and he realized that it must be a complete list of everyone in the room. “What is the last thing you can remember before waking up here?”
Hannibal paused, the scene replaying in his mind. “I was at Libyssa, a small town on the eastern shore of the Sea of Marmara, in Asia Minor. I... I knew the Romans would not stop at pursuing me until I was dead. They feared even an old man too much to let me die in peace. I chose to end my life, on my own terms.”
Machiavelli nodded, speaking for the first time. “Such is as the histories say,” he said to Eisenhower, who nodded. The lean man turned to Hannibal, preparing another question, when a loud shout came from the stairs, where a few others still slept.
All heads in the common room turned to the source of the disturbance that had so quickly and cleanly broken the silence. Hannibal saw a well-formed, handsome man descending the stairs with an imperious stride, followed quickly by the beautiful Lady Audrey. She was visibly upset, though not as much as the man whom she followed.
Upon reaching the last stair, the man looked up for the first time and was surprised at the number of faces that stared back at him. Not letting that deter him, he addressed his now captive audience.
“I demand to see whoever has brought me here! I am Alexander, King of Macedonia, Hegemon of the Hellenic League, Shahanshah of Persia, Pharaoh of Egypt, and Lord of Asia, and I demand to know the name of the bastard that brought me here!”
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lordroel
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Post by lordroel on May 12, 2016 14:22:11 GMT
This timeline is going to be good.
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stevep
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Post by stevep on May 12, 2016 17:14:54 GMT
This timeline is going to be good. Lordroel If your not come across a "For all the Marbles" story before you are in for a treat. There are going to be a lot of familiar names, all recruited by an ASB but I won't spoil the story by telling you any more.  Steve |
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lordroel
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Post by lordroel on May 12, 2016 17:16:43 GMT
This timeline is going to be good. Lordroel If your not come across a "For all the Marbles" story before you are in for a treat. There are going to be a lot of familiar names, all recruited by an ASB but I won't spoil the story by telling you any more. Steve Well do not spoil it, lucky for me AH.com is offline so i will not be able to read everything at once. |
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stevep
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Post by stevep on May 12, 2016 22:20:08 GMT
Actually I should have remembered earlier but William was the guy who actually invented the all the marbles concept, unless there was an earlier author I'm not aware of.
Steve
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Post by williamdellinger on May 12, 2016 22:43:08 GMT
Actually I should have remembered earlier but William was the guy who actually invented the all the marbles concept, unless there was an earlier author I'm not aware of. Steve Yep, that's me. |
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Post by williamdellinger on May 12, 2016 22:44:44 GMT
Chapter 1C
Niccolo Machiavelli
“...the name of the bastard that brought me here!”
Niccolo watched the greatest military mind in the history of his world cover his fear and desperation with bluff and bluster. He had to admit, the Macedonian general had managed himself into a fine rage; just not enough to cover the slight shake of his hand or the smallest tremor in his voice. Nothing that the rest would have noticed, just the smaller things a lifetime of observation had taught him.
That gave him everything he needed to know about the man, even if he had not assumed as much from the historical accounts. There was only one way to handle someone with Alexander's obvious arrogance and ego.
“Thank you, Lady Hepburn, for bringing down our next guest. How many are still upstairs?”
Hepburn glared at Alexander before turning to Niccolo. “There are three left, Mr. Machiavelli. Mr. Salk and Mrs. Nightingale are attending them.”
Niccolo nodded his head in thanks and Hepburn turned on her heel back toward the stairs. Alexander stood there incredulously, waiting for someone to answer his questions.
“I said–” Alexander began, but Niccolo cut him off as soon as he spoke.
“General Barca, it would seem that there is another very eager to answer our questions. Mr. Hawking will continue your processing at another table,” Niccolo said with a smile, gesturing to the empty table nearby. Hannibal was staring in shock at the, to him, living legend of military might standing before him. He wordlessly stood and nodded, joining the future scientist Hawking at the other table.
“Who are you and why–” Alexander began again.
“Sir,” he said, turning to the unknown man who was next in line to be processed. “My apologies, but would you mind if we processed this gentleman ahead of you? It seems he is very impatient to begin the process.”
The man nodded hesitantly, looking between the two men and deciding very quickly that he didn't wish to be involved. Niccolo turned to Alexander and gestured to the open chair in front of them. “You may be seated, sir.”
Alexander stared pure venom at Niccolo, but the former Florentine stared back with practiced bureaucratic indifference. Nothing could take the wind out of a prince's sails like the static immutability of the bureaucracy. Alexander sat, just as imperiously as he had stalked down the stairs. Eisenhower looked at Niccolo with a wary expression, but Niccolo only smiled. Eisenhower was another military man, albeit from Niccolo's far future, and was probably as equally in awe of Alexander the Great as Hannibal had been.
Truth be told, Niccolo was a bit in awe of the famed Macedonian general as well. From as much as he could ascertain, he was on the older end of the established timeline for the group. He only recognized perhaps a third of the gathered host, but the others he had joined in processing – Eisenhower and Hawking – came from a time much further in the future and had recognized them all. That was something to ponder, certainly.
“Your name, sir?” Niccolo asked, his bored expression seeping into his words.
Alexander flushed purple. “You know my name, you vile wretch. Are you the ones that brought me here?”
Niccolo carefully and slowly wrote the name “Alexander of Macedon” on his parchment, ensuring that each and every letter was perfectly formed. He smiled to himself as Alexander grew visibly more impatient, shifting in his seat in an effort to disguise his unease.
“I asked you a question,” Alexander said icily.
Niccolo looked up from his parchment and smiled sweetly at Alexander. “Of course, sir. No, we are not the ones responsible, merely fellow abductees. Our hope is that these questions and answers will give us some idea of where we are and why,” he said, with all of the sincerity and earnestness he could muster.
The answer mollified Alexander somewhat, though he retained his glare. Niccolo had chosen his tone carefully; a tone of quiet authority, backed by calm assurance. “Would I be correct in assuming that your last memories are of death, or a long illness?”
Alexander nodded slowly, his carefully crafted facade of confidence beginning to fail once he thought of his own death. It was an expression Niccolo had seen many times over the course of the morning. He assumed that what followed next would be an attempt to reestablish dominance.
“I want wine. Have it brought out.”
Niccolo smiled again, the same smile as before. “We have someone inventorying the inn. They have yet to find wine, but one can always hope. I would love a glass myself.”
Alexander's fist slammed into the table and the young general leapt to his feet. “I will not be toyed with, scribe! I want answers, and I want them now!” Spittle was flying from his mouth as he shouted and his hands were trembling. “Who are you?! Why am I here?!”
It wasn't an entirely unexpected event, that Alexander would finally lose control after the trauma of death, resurrection, and being on another planet or another plane of existence altogether. Several others had come close to losing control in much the same manner, but none had attempted to hide their fear with arrogance. Death had proven to be the great humbler, with all but one exception.
Of course, that was why he had kept Eisenhower – the tall, muscular general – at his side, rather than the smaller Hawking.
Eisenhower, having gotten over his awe of the famed general, stood slowly to face Alexander. To his credit, he kept his face and tone calm. “Sir, we are all in the same situation. None of us know why we are here, or where here is. The only thing keeping us together is the thought of finding those answers, and your outbursts are not helping!”
Niccolo glanced at Eisenhower, telling from the quiver of his voice that the general was also close to losing control; not of his temper, but of his mind. Niccolo could tell without looking that the rest of the group were also barely hanging on to their sanity. He couldn't blame them; the only thing keeping him from crying in a corner was the problem at hand. The interesting problem.
Alexander, however, didn't have that luxury. He responded to Eisenhower's unspoken threat of force the only way he knew how.
“I know not who you are, but I am a son of Zeus, trained since childhood in all matter of combat known to man. I conquered the Known World and commanded armies that made the ground tremble. Sword in my hand or not, I will go through you.”
Comparing the two, Niccolo couldn't decide who would be victorious. Eisenhower was taller and broader, but Alexander was right; such training could prove to be the deciding factor.
Such things had already been taken into account. It was why Niccolo had timed such an encounter for the foraging party's return.
Four men came through the massive double doors of the inn, dressed in the same tunic that they had all found themselves in. Niccolo, being very good with names, remembered when Eisenhower had introduced them to him.
Ernest Hemingway, a broad shouldered man with a loud voice and boisterous personality; George Patton, shorter, but determined and ill-tempered; Ariel Sharon, the Jew who looked as if he could kill a man without a second thought; and Lewis Puller, called “Chesty” by Eisenhower and others.
Niccolo smiled at Alexander as the four men came through the doors and, taking note of the situation, positioned themselves around the table. The smile was deadly sweet and made a point of arranging his parchment and charcoal.
“Shall we continue?”
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Post by williamdellinger on May 14, 2016 1:26:18 GMT
Chapter 1D
Gaius Julius Caesar
Gaius sat with his head in his hands, his temples pounding. He had been like that since waking up and no amount of rubbing or water had stopped it. The processing had only made it worse, especially when the one – Eisenhower – had asked about his death. For some reason, his hands had started shaking and his vision became blurred. The headache had gotten worse and it took every ounce of effort to focus on his table companions, some of whom he knew of, some he didn't.
Flavius Belisarius called himself a Roman, but his Rome was so much difference from Gaius'. If the man spoke truth, five hundred years different, and based out of the Greek city of Byzantium, not Rome. He was tall and dark-haired, and noticeably Greek in his features. The man called Augustine, from Hippo Regius, also called himself a Roman, though he also called himself a Christian. His Rome was still Rome, though nearly four hundred years after Gaius, and apparently much changed. Hannibal Barca had joined them shortly after his processing, and every Roman not deaf and blind knew who he was. His Rome was also different from Gaius', though in the latter's past. It was all very strange and confusing and that only made his headache worse. Octavian was there as well, his great-nephew and adopted son. It was good to see the boy again and hear of what happened during his reign.
He had to have died; everyone else had, but Gaius couldn't remember his. Hannibal remembered drinking poison to escape his Roman pursuers; Augustine remembered starving in the siege of Hippo as an old man. Why couldn't he remember his own death? The last thing he remembered was walking to Pompey's theatre. Men were waiting for him, eager to see him...
“They have no right.”
Gaius looked up into his adopted son's face, the statement breaking his concentration. “What?”
Octavian gestured with his chin to the table at the front, where Eisenhower and Machiavelli sat, processing the remaining people. “Watch how they treat the great Alexander, ruler of the Known World. Peasants threatening an emperor with bodily harm.”
Augustine stirred as from where he sat, gazing into the cup of water before him. “They didn't threaten him directly, Lord Augustus. And they have shown great foresight in writing down information from all of us. Lord Alexander should not have tried them.”
“Alexander was king, and a far greater man than any here. He should be accorded his due respect. As should we all,” he said, with a tone that obviously included himself. “Such men attacking an emperor is disgraceful.”
Gaius opened his mouth to answer when his headache suddenly ceased and he could remember.
Gaius walked up the steps of the theatre, prepared to watch a game of gladiatorial sport. It was a refreshing change of pace, to be able to relax in peace without the gaggle of petitioners that hounded him. Yet, no sooner had he crossed the threshold of the Theatre, another petitioner rushed to his side. Tullius Cimber, a Senator, waved in his face a petition to recall his exiled brother, Publius. Gaius waved him away, turning to walk deeper into the east portico. A throng of Senators crowded around him as Tullius followed him.
Gaius grew angry, pushing away from the Senators forcefully. Cimber grabbed his tunic, pulling it off of his shoulder and yelling to the rest of the Senators.
Gaius looked Cimber, recognizing the expression of a man committed to murder. "Ista quidem vis est!"
Another Senator, Casca, rushed him, brandishing a dagger and thrusting it towards his neck. With his military training, Gaius was easily able to defend himself, grabbing Casca’s arm and forcing it back.
“Casca, te scelerate, quid agis?”
The coward Casca shrunk back, fright covering his face. He turned and shouted to his fellow Senators, “Nunc, fratres!”
Gaius turned in horror, finding that all of the gathered had brought daggers, their expressions making their intentions obvious. Those daggers lashed out, striking him in his face and arms, covering his face in blood. Gaius fought back as best he could, punching and clawing against his attackers, but there were just too many.
Gaius fell, landing on the marble floor hard. He felt the daggers plunge into his flesh, too weak to defend himself. His blood was pooling beneath him, causing the floor to slicken. He tried to prop himself up with his arms, but the strength just wasn’t there.
Suddenly, the stabbing stopped, the Senators stepping back. Gaius looked through hazy eyes, watching a figure step forward into the scene. Marcus Junius Brutus stood over Gaius, holding a dagger and staring at the bleeding, dying Caesar.
Gaius saw his old friend, standing in concert with these assassins, and felt the last bit of fight leave him. He summoned the last of his strength, raising his head to look his one-time friend in the eye.
“Et tu, Brute?” He said, allowing the pain he felt to enter his words. Brutus’ gaze dropped, unwilling to meet his mentor’s eyes. “Et cadite, Caesar.”
Gaius fell, face down in his own blood, feeling Brutus’ dagger enter his back. He turned, gasping for air, as–
Hands shook him roughly and Gaius found himself on the wooden floor, thrashing around with all of his might. He saw Octavian holding his shoulders down, saying something to him, but he couldn't hear anything.
They killed me. They assassinated me.
He realized he had been shouting those words, his throat raw. Where there was nothing but a dull hum suddenly exploded into full sound.
Octavian recoiled in horror. “I wanted to tell you, Uncle, but I couldn't, forgive me, I felt it would be better if you remembered on your own, oh, forgive me,” he said, the words stumbling over one another, worry etched across his face.
Gaius managed to get his feet beneath him and sat, his mind still reeling from the revelation. It pounded once again and his heart felt weak, skipping every other beat. He tried to speak, but nothing would come out.
A man made his way through the tables and staring people to kneel by Gaius' side. He looked first in one eye, and then the other, watching Gaius for any reaction. He must have been a healer of some kind, but not the healer Salk that had examined him before, nor the healer woman Audrey that had calmed him down the first time. The strange man spoke to Octavian.
“What happened here?”
Octavian made a move to push him away, but Gaius intervened. He was scared, the kind of fear he had never felt on a battlefield. It was cold and hard and ungiving, wrapping icy claws into his mind and his heart and his stomach. Anger met fear, anger that he couldn't control, anger that wanted the fear gone. The room was at once too loud, too quiet, too full, and too empty. Gaius didn't know what was happening, but if this man could help, he would welcome it.
“My name is Ignatius, from Loyola. I was a soldier and then a priest. I have seen men like this, trapped in their own minds after too much death.” He stood and looked at Gaius. “It will take time, but your mind will heal. I will help.”
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lordroel
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Post by lordroel on May 14, 2016 7:47:20 GMT
Actually I should have remembered earlier but William was the guy who actually invented the all the marbles concept, unless there was an earlier author I'm not aware of. Steve What is the marbles concept. |
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Post by eurowatch on May 14, 2016 9:52:51 GMT
Actually I should have remembered earlier but William was the guy who actually invented the all the marbles concept, unless there was an earlier author I'm not aware of. Steve What is the marbles concept. Basicly, a bunch of historic figures get summoned in one place and instructed to run a country by some aliens. Kind of like aliens playing Civililation With real People. |
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lordroel
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Post by lordroel on May 14, 2016 9:59:20 GMT
What is the marbles concept. Basicly, a bunch of historic figures get summoned in one place and instructed to run a country by some aliens. Kind of like aliens playing Civililation With real People. A, thanks for explaining. |
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Seen a few of those stories, although not sure I've seen any completed. Mind you a couple of years since I left Ah so don't know what's been on there.
