British Salmoa Times

"Ah! Tiberius," exclaimed Caesar when General Tiberius entered his command post. "Any news from Cleopatra?" "No, sir," answered Tiberius as his gaze drifted to a cinerarium resting on a table in front of Caesar. "This should have never happened... not to him." "Thank you, Tiberius..." Turning to the courier standing next to him, Caesar said, "Take this letter, Pompey’s ring… and his ashes. Deliver them to Cornelia in Cyprus... tell her I grieve with her." "Caesar!" "I do not understand how they can lose a body, like a parcel!" said Caesar, slamming his fist on the table. "Recall the men, we need them here," he ordered. "Caesar, there is something you should see," added Tiberius. Caesar looked at him with an inquisitive gaze. "A beggar woman — no one understands what she is saying. The legionaries are keeping her locked up; they think she might be a sorceress." "Bring her,...

A military commander walked urgently through the wide corridors of the Royal Palace in Alexandria. He sped by the courtyard, scanning quickly, and continued. He stopped at the entrance to the Royal Gardens, searching from one side to the other. Between the exotic plants sat the young King Ptolemy XIII. "Beautifully played, Sire!" Ptolemy's tutor complimented the young king with adulation. The boy lowered the pipes with a joyous smile. "Sire!" "Archillas!" Ptolemy snapped, lowering the pipes. "Can you see I am busy? Are you blind?" "Forgive me, Sire," said Archillas with reverence. “A Rhodian fleet has been sighted approaching Alexandria. They are flying Roman banners.” He spoke while looking at the king, then bowed his head slightly to make eye contact with Pothinus. “Rhodian ships! I want to see them!” Ptolemy exclaimed, leaping from his chair and running toward the garden’s exit. “Sire! Sire! It could be Julius Caesar, and you mus...

It is the year 46 BC and Caesar, back in Rome, has been appointed by the senate of the people Dictator Per Decem Annos. Rome had rewarded its most cherished son after his victories. "Oh, Aulus Hirtius, how good of you to come!" Julius Caesar opened his arms with enthusiasm to welcome his old army friend and personal historian. "It is great to be here, Caesar!" "And you brought Hirtia with you! She is so beautiful! Let me look at both of you!" He contemplated them in awe for a moment; then shaking his head he added — "No, no... she is too beautiful to be wasted... we will find her a husband!" Hirtia's  face turned red like fire, and with a shy smile she looked away, hiding her emotions. "Oh, what am I doing! You are like family to me..." and with a gentle reverence he spoke to  Hirtia . " Hirtia , darling, go to the gardens and join Pompeia, there are wonderful refreshments... please, please, please... enjoy yourself... men’s ta...

"General, we are taking heavy casualties at the Heptastadion causeway… we are holding, but Caesar is making progress…" Hegemon Horos commanded the defense forces protecting the southern bridge of the Heptastadion. "We cannot lose the bridge," Ganymedes responded. He knew that losing this position would give Caesar a direct path to Pharos Island. Turning to the High Priest of the Order of Ra, he asked: "Are the Servants ready? Are they here?” "Deliverers!" shouted the High Priest, projecting his voice from the darkest depth of his lungs. "Deliverers!" he cried again, his voice striking every wall of the Royal Palace, bouncing from ceiling to floor, creating a haunting echo. The summons produced four Deliverers. They stood facing the High Priest. One of them was Phibis. Phibis had served the Order of Ra for as long as he could remember. A devastating drought had impoverished his family; to save his life, he had been given to the temple, where ...

On the night of the fifth day before the Ides of December, the sky over Alexandria was relatively clear. A warm land breeze slipped through the gaps between buildings, winding its way along the narrow streets where the Alexandrians had erected high barricades to halt the advance of Julius Caesar’s soldiers. "I demand my release!" shouted the young King Ptolemy XIII, held captive in a section of the Royal Palace controlled by Caesar and his troops. In a fit of rage, the young monarch tried to leave the room where he was confined alongside his closest advisors. Four heavily armed legionaries blocked his path; they drew their gladii just far enough to reveal the blades before sheathing them again with a sharp, metallic snap. "You must understand — we need to negotiate with Caesar. This situation is untenable," an advisor attempted to reason with the captain of the guard. "Sire, please, step back. I have orders to use force if necessary," the captain responded...

In 48 BC, Rome was mired in civil war. Julius Caesar had crushed Pompey the Great at Pharsalus. “Any news of Pompey?” Caesar asked Mark Antony as he entered the tent, walking in the direction of an aquamanile. “We haven’t found his body,” Antony replied while a slave tipped a bronze ewer over his hands, washing the blood and dirt into the basin below. “Some of his officers claim they saw him slip out of camp under cover of night. Like a thief.” “As long as he lives, he is a danger to me. We must find him. And if he is alive…” Caesar paused. He knew Antony well — loyal, competent, but no political strategist. “…I suspect he isn’t dead. We need him alive, Antony.” “I’ll organize the pursuit myself, and when I find him—” “You will do no such thing,” Caesar cut in. Antony froze, hand outstretched. “Don’t you trust me to bring him back alive?” “I need you in Rome.” Antony lowered his arm, stunned. “It is for the good of the Republic.” “The Republic?” Antony scoffed. “The Republic is dead. W...

Early mornings in an Arctic Valkarian sea city are quiet and cold in November. At four in the morning, a gentle vibration on Antonenko’s wristwatch signaled that the hour had arrived. He managed to sit on the edge of the bed. He exhaled involuntarily, his body protesting as he bent forward, sinking his face into both hands while resting his elbows on his knees. He did not want to leave Valeria’s side. Looking over, his eyes stopped on her uncovered shoulder, shimmering under the faint glow of a streetlamp. As he slid slowly off the bed, the moment he left the edge, Valeria woke with a small gasp. “It is time?” “Yes.” “So soon,” she murmured. They whispered; they did not want to wake Jelena, their golden‑haired eleven‑year‑old daughter. She had school later. They walked carefully, stepping on the wooden floorboards strategically, avoiding the ones that betrayed them with their out‑of‑tune creaks. “Do you want me to prepare something for you before you leave?” He looked at her before ans...

The S.S. Severnny Polyus pushes steadily through the newly fractured pack ice north of the Franz Josef Land Archipelago. The powerful xenon searchlights mounted on the bridge carve pale corridors through the polar night, their beams diffusing into the drifting snow and low Arctic haze. From the bow, the world is a shifting geometry of ice and darkness. Massive slabs of white and blue sea ice — some rising two or three meters above the surface — buckle and split under the Polyus’s reinforced hull. The ship forces the broken pieces downward and aside, grinding them into the black water. Behind the icebreaker, a long ribbon of open sea trails in its wake, dark as ink and rimmed with vapor where the frigid air meets the comparatively warmer water. Within minutes, the lead begins to skin over with new ice: first a sheen of grease, then thin nilas spreading like a fragile membrane across the surface. The Severnny Polyus had been recalled from a training rotation to assist a tanker trapped in...

The Kafīl of the Bawervan Nation was a man of honor. He ordered a cadre of his bravest men to escort Marco Polo’s emissaries back toward the Silk Road and protect them until they reached the threshold of what is now northern Syria, then known as the Mamluk Frontier. “You are part of our history now. Our nation will always be your home.” When the emissaries finally reached Italy, they became a sensation among noble circles. They spoke of a handsome, earthy people who resembled Europeans in appearance but lived closer to the land. Their account of saving their leader’s son from certain death—and everything that followed—captivated the courts of Europe. The Pope himself summoned the emissaries to hear their testimony. In Avignon, a Prussian scholar employed by the papal court became completely fascinated by the tale. He retained Marco Polo’s chief delegate, the man who had endured that extraordinary passage through the lands of the Bawervan Nation. That scholar, Friedrich von Barmen, was ...