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An unorthodox interrogation
The elder senator paced around the room, angrily. “He has sent his slave to interview us?”
The Greek historian looked up and replied in a matter of fact way: “Who are we to question the orders of our new Emperor?”
The senator stopped and stared piercingly at the historian: “And he specifically wanted to speak to you, as well as me?”
The trace of a self-satisfied smile crossed the historian’s lips and he said with a slight hint of smuggness: “He wrote something about wanting to interview the two closest members of Valentinianus's retinue.”
The senator snorted but then turned as the door opened. Fierce-looking German bodyguards marched loudly into the room, surrounding a striking figure, a young female figure clad in the finest red cloth. Her skin was like fine mahogany and her high cheekbones were scarred by ornamental tattoos. The woman moved with grace, confidently surveying the two old men waiting in the room. Her eyes seem to flicker with a mix of amusement, curiosity and condescension. The historian bowed his eyes in bewilderment, while those of the senator looked as if they were about to pop out his rotund head at any second.
“A woman…” the Senator started, seeming to slowly puff himself up like an inflated pig’s bladder.
“I see my master was not mistaken about your perspicacity.” the woman said in a good humoured voice that disarmed the elder statesman, who seemed to visibly deflate. “My name is Rebecca, but who I am is unimportant. All that matters is that I speak for my master, the Emperor Leontius Flavius. He has charged me with an urgent task that only the two of you can assist me with.”
The Greek historian looked up keenly, while the Senator stared down on the ground in irritation.
Rebecca continued: “You two men were close to my master’s father. My master must hear everything you know of his father’s plans. I need you to think back over the last year and a half. What did Valentinianus do when he learnt of the storm coming from the East?”
https://img89.imageshack.us/img89/8065/wre16as.jpg
The late Emperor Valentinianus and his retinue
Maintaining order
The historian slowly opened his mouth to speak, but the Senator quickly jumped in: “Do? What did he do when the whole of the Empire seemed to stumble and shake around him? When agitators stirred up the people and our cities burnt? When our troops had to police our own population and our generals became virtual prisoners in the towns they governed? What did he do? Well, he did the only thing he could - he gave the people what they wanted: low taxes, circuses, temples for pagans and churches for Christians.”
“And that was enough?” Rebecca probed.
“Eventually, yes.” said the Senator. “After the riots had died down. Thousands died in Salona, you know.” The Senator looked intensely at Rebecca. “Different factions butchered each other in the streets, while the tiny garrison of foederati barricaded themselves helplessly in the palace.”
Rebecca turned dismissively away, to the historian: “Is there anything you wish to add?”
The historian paused for thought: “I suppose one should not underestimate the importance of relocating the capital”.
The Senator let out a loud “Harrumph!” so the historian continued hesitantly: “Moving the administration of government out of Rome was a radical step…”
“Mark my words,” interrupted the Senator: “It marks the beginning of the end of the Empire. I mean, Massila is all very well for a winter retreat but to try to conduct the business of state there, far from the wise counsel of the Senate…”
“Whose idea was it?” inquired Rebecca.
“Oh, the fool scheme of your master’s youngest brother, I believe. Some say Cassius is a genius…”
The historian interjected: “I believe Cassius said he had calculated that it was the optimal location to minimise discontent in the Empire…”
“Whatever that means!” snorted the Senator. “It’s all Greek to me.” And with that the Senator gave the historian a dismissive look.
Military matters
Rebecca pushed on: “What about Leontius’s other brothers? Did they give their father any specific guidance?”
The Senator replied “Ah! I believe it was Caius who recommended Nero Flavius be sent to Rome to lead the main army east. Said Nero was the most promising young commander in the army, I believe.”
Rebecca gave a slight nod of her head: “Yes, my master has noted the army mustering outside Mediolanium. The experienced legions, the archers from Gaul and even a troop of Samartians newly raised here in Rome - it is an honour for Nero to command such a force. But there have been no other deployments, have there?”
The historian spoke quickly, to pre-empt the Senator: “No major redeployments, no. Oppus Flavius has amassed a force at Aquincum, but Valentinianus was unsure whether to send it north to Britannia to support an action against the Celts or east to mount a raid on the Alemanni.”
“Both such raids are rather overdue, in my opinion.” snorted the Senator. “The barbarians are slowly gathering their strength. Given our weak treasury, we cannot match their growth. We need to strike now, to cut them down to size while we still can.”
The historian butted in: “Another key weak spot is North Africa - Appius is sending his chirugeon to Rome to join Nero’s army, but has requested the fleet return with whatever soldiers can be spared from Syracuse and Caralis. If the Berbers were to advance into our African provinces right now, there would be precious there to stop them.”
The economy, stupid
Rebecca casually ran her hand through her long, curled hair and said wryly: “You may rest assured Africa is never far from my Masters’ thoughts.” The historian looked uncomfortable, so Rebecca moved on: “Senator, you mentioned a lack of finance. How did Valentinianus avoid going into debt?”
The Senator sounded irritated: “Damned miser never spent a penny, that’s how! I mean avoiding debt is not exactly Euclidean geometry is it? When you’ve got no money, you don’t spend it. When the ship masters and the foederati nobles came asking for their stipends, the Emperor told them to go walk. And so they did. And so here we are, with no cavalry and no navy. The beginning of the end, I tell you!”
The historian countered: “But the ship masters are now free to ply their wares around the Empire. On which subject…” The historian rummaged through his papers: “I received a communication from Decimus Flavius, he recommended we use what revenue we could spare to develop docking facilities around the provinces, in order to encourage trade…”
The Senator was indignant: “Pah! Decimus… the same Decimus who came up with the wheeze of sending our diplomats to sell trade rights to barbarians…” the Senator snorted. “We are probably selling these barbarians the weapons they will use to butcher us…”
A new beginning
Rebecca discretely stifled a yawn: “Thank you gentlemen, you have been most informative. My master will be so grateful for your ideas and insights."
"One last question..." she said, "I heard the old Emperor fell sick abruptly after a rather over-indulgent feast. Did he happen to have any last words before he died?"
The historian sadly shook his head. "No, he was delirious... muttered something about a tin cow being out to get him. It made no sense to me."
After completing the formalities of departure, Rebecca left the room and headed back to the carriage waiting for her in the street outside. Nearby, she could see workmen labouring to construct a large but austere building.
“What are they building?” she asked the young Centurion who had been sent to accompany her and her escort of German bodyguards.
The young Roman looked flattered to be noticed and replied: “It is a new army barracks, Miss. I have heard there are plans to raise new first cohorts for our legions and even to train our soldiers to use darts instead of javelins. You know, so we have a better chance of countering those hordes from the steppes we have heard so much about.”
Rebecca nodded with interest, so the young Centurion continued:
“And what shall I say to those two gentlemen we just left, Miss? Will the Emperor be requiring their services any more?”
“No, make sure that they both have their pensions and then get them out of Rome. My master has plans of his own and must not be tied down by relics of the past. There is much that needs to be done here and it is not work for old men.”
The young Centurion nodded, said his goodbyes and left as Rebecca entered her carriage. She sat down next to the her master's "food taster" who was waiting for her.
"Don't worry." she said, "They suspect nothing."
https://img89.imageshack.us/img89/9725/wre26jc.jpg
The new Emperor Leontius and his retinue
Augustus Leontius Flavius dropped the scroll he was reading and rubbed his tired eyes. The scroll landed on top of a heap of other scrolls on his desk - some opened, many more as yet unread. It was late and he was beginning to feel his brain slowing down. He grunted to himself in mild amusement. So this was what being Roman Emperor meant? He couldn't fail to see the irony. All the men through the history of this great Empire who had been so willing to shed other mens blood to win - or keep - this ultimate prize, and for what? So they could read endless diplomatic reports, provincial accountants estimates of income, reports from the treasury, complaints from governors too lazy or incompetant to sort their own small problems out and so much more besides. So many texts to digest, so many sets of figures to analyse.
And by the grace of God, it was his job. He grunted again, he knew that even now there were members of his family coveting his throne. If only they knew what lay in store for them. A faint smile spread across his lips. Of course there were some perks to the job. As governer of Tarentum he had been able to demand his cut of the profits of local traders, as well as siphon off chunks of provincial tax income. Who knew how much money he could make as Emperor? He made a mental note to make sure that the latest shipment of wine leaving the town had a quarter of its amphora confiscated or "lost due to breakage". The very best wine would go to the wine cellars of his various villas, the rest would find its way into the stock one of the many repectable trading companies that he was a sleeping owner of, there to be sold on at a healthy profit to himself. Rank Has Its Privileges, as he liked to remind himself.
And there were other perks too. The knowledge that his name would live forever. Augustus Leontius Flavius would for all time be included in the list of Roman Emperors. Hopefully with a few extra names to boot by the end of his reign, just to make him stand out from the crowd. Augustus Leontius Flavius Africanus. No, no, how about Augustus Leontius Flavius Germanicus? Yes much better, kill a pile of stinking barbarians AND add lustre to your title, a win-win situation. Augustus Leontius Flavius Germanicus Magnus. Yes, he really liked that one. But all this dreaming would have to wait for now. In time, oh yes, in time. But for now he had work to do. He refocussed his attention on whether his nephew Decimus Flavius, by all accounts a superb administrator, would be better placed in running the currently governor-less city of Rome, or replacing his inept, self important, boggle eyed brother Appius as governor of Carthage. And then he had to go through all the other provinces of the Empire, decide which governor would go where, who deserved a bigger and better posting, who needed to be shunted to one side, who could be trusted, and who could not. Then he had to compose letters to each of them with their intructions, and guidelines for how he wanted his Empire run. Barbarians and Pagans he thought, if it wasn't for Barbarians and Pagans my life would be so much simpler...
Winter 363 AD
By the time Gratianus Flavius finished reading the scroll from his uncle, Augustus Leontius Flavius, he was almost weeping with joy. He had been assigned a new governorship! No longer would he be stuck here at the edge of Empire keeping watch on the barbarians across the frontier, no longer would he wake up every morning wondering if this would be the day when he would receive the news that the Alemni were on their way. And he knew that that day would come, oh yes, it was only a matter of time. The prospect of Barbarian hordes sweeping down to rape and pillage Rome’s weakly defended border provinces dominated his thoughts, both waking and sleeping. Just that night he had dreamt, as he did almost every night, of fighting against waves of Barbarians. The dream was always the same – wave after wave after wave of the savages, too many, always too many to fight. And as the hordes closed in on Gratianus, he would wake up in a terrified cold sweat.
And now he was to be moved away from the borders, no longer would he spend his days poring over reports from watchtowers and spies, no longer would he obsess about whether the barbarian attack had already started, if he was a dead man already. He put the scroll down and smiled at the officers around him, trying hard not to show their curiosity at this message from the Emperor.
*********************************************************
Gratianus was busy explaining details of the handover of the governorship to his officers when she walked in
“I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY NOW YOU USELESS LILY LIVERRED COWARD!!!”
All conversation in the room stopped.
“L-L-Livia” stammered Gratianus. He had been dreading this moment, knew it was only a matter of time.
“I can’t believe I let my daughter marry you! I knew I should have never let her marry you! It was only her father, God rest his soul, who let it happen you know! Wouldn’t listen to me, oh no, thought he knew best, typical block headed man!” Her voice changed to a whiny, mocking tone ““But Livia” he said “his uncle is going to be Emperor in a few years” he said, “he’s going to nephew of the Augustus” he said, “he’ll get some prime jobs” he said. GAH! Stupid, stupid man! Wouldn’t listen to his wife, oh no. I told him, oh yes I told him, I said you were a craven coward, I said you were scared of your own shadow! If I told him once I told him a thousand times, oh yes, as God is my witness I told him! But he wouldn’t listen, I might as well as been talking to myself for all the good it did! I don’t now why I bother I really don’t! You’re just as bad as he was, never listen to me! If you’d listen to me occasionally perhaps you wouldn’t be being transferred in disgrace! Oh the shame of it, how will I ever be able to hold my head with pride if I ever get back to Rome – or Massila since your granddad made that stupid decision to move the capital to that backwater! Why he did that I’ll never know! Oh I know why he did it alright, it was that Decimus Flavius, always too clever for his own good that boy! That’s why he thought it would be such a good idea, always got his head in the books, adding up the accounts, no idea of what a capital is really all about! He might want to spend all his time musing on trade figures but some of us like to have a social life you know! Not that I’m ever likely to spend much time in civilized Roman high society again, thanks to YOU! That’s it, your careers effectively over now, you do realize that don’t you?”
She carried on ranting of course, this was just the warm up. She could go on haranguing Gratianus for 30 minutes or more without let up and no-one else in the room would be allowed a word in edgeways throughout the entire performance. Nor would they be allowed to leave. One or two officers had tried to sneak out when Gratianus had first arrived in Augusta Vindelicorum with his mother-in-law in tow. It was a mistake they never made twice. Better just to stand there and intently study the ceiling or the floor – anything to avoid Livia's tongue.
Of course, the entire army was glad to see the back of the pair of them. Gratianus was a real contradiction – he actually had an excellent grasp of military theory, his knowledge of tactics and logistics was first class. Unfortunately he had no guts and combat had a paralyzing, terrifying effect on him. And if he was a coward at the best of times, then barbarians reduced him to a quivering wreck incapable of any effective command. Roman soldiers could forgive a commander who was tactically inept but brave as a lion, but they would never trust a military genius who was a coward. And as for Livia…well she constantly undermined him in front of all and sundry, from the lowliest ranker to the highest ranking visiting dignitary. Yes, this army on the edge of Empire knew that their new Augustus had made the right decision in relocating their governor and his mother-in-law somewhere where he could do less damage.
**********************************************************
Having arrived in Mediolanium and installed himself in the Governors palace, Gratianus wasted no time in implementing one of Leontius’s directives. The new Christian Emperor wanted a united Christian Empire and had instructed all his relatives of that religion to begin tearing down the pagan temples and building churches in their place. Gratianus set to his new task with relish.
He never anticipated the backlash that stripping the Temple of Mithras of its treasures and razing it to the ground would have on the people of that almost exclusively pagan city. He never anticipated the rioting that would break out in the city. He never anticipated that the rioting would go on, and on, and on. He never anticipated that eventually the mob would work itself up so much that it would storm the governor’s palace. He never anticipated that whilst he hid in a cupboard that Livia would stand in the room berating him for causing all these problems, for not being man enough to stand up to these plebian scum who were burning the city around them. He never anticipated that the mob would burst into the room and literally tear them both limb from limb before spiking their heads on the city gates.
Thus ended the life of Gratianus the Lilly Livered.
Eventually a leader emerged from the rioters, one Andragathius Galerius, and flush with confidence following the murder of their governor, and in protest against the attempts of their new Augustus to impose Christianity on them, elected him as a rival Emperor in the west.
Such crimes could of course not go without retribution, nor could a rival Emperor be tolerated and so Leontius ordered his younger brother Caius to retake Mediolanium. Caius was on his way to Dalmatia, there to strengthen the Eastern borders when he got the news to turn back. Taking charge of the troops who had fled from the city when the rioting had gotten out of control, and picking up a few cohorts of other troops along the way, he laid siege to Mediolanium.
Caius Flavius put down the scroll. His face was stony, his countenance resigned.
“Well, what does the Emperor say?” asked his senior legate, Constans Heraclianus.
“He says we have been sat outside the walls of Mediolanium too long. He says that his son Marcus has fought 2 major battles in the last year against the Alemni, and although he won both of them that his losses have been heavy, and that not only does he have no troops to spare, Marcus has priority over any reinforcements he does manage to raise. He says that not only have the Eastern Empire cancelled our alliance, they have the gall to ask for 6000 denarii tribute every year or they will attack! To reinforce this threat they have a large army milling around the eastern part of Ilyricum et Dalmatia. He says that the loss of Mediolanium has been a serious blow to Imperial finances and it is only the financial genius of ***** Flavius in Rome that is keeping the economy going and there is no money to spare”
Caius sighed.
“Our request for funds to be released so that we may hire mercenaries has been denied. We are to assault the city as soon as possible”
“Does he not realize that we are outnumbered by the defenders of Mediolanium? We have only 400 men to their 600! And they are disloyal rebels, they will fight with a fury, for they know they cannot expect mercy! It wouldn’t be so bad if we could recruit some cohorts of Foederatii - they are so much cheaper and easier to recruit than Roman troops!”
“You know the Emperors orders. No more Foederatii. No Foederatii infantry, no Foederatii cavalry. Flavius hates barbarians, and he thinks that the reliance on them to fight our battles has weakened the character of the Roman Citizen. Not to mention the fact he thinks barbarians stink. You know I think he has a point, about the weakening of Rome - the greatness of our Empire has always been built on the warrior spirit of the Roman man. We must cultivate that warrior culture amongst our people once more.”
He paued and grinned at Constans, “But I’m not denying a few cohorts of Foederatii wouldn’t come in useful right now.”
Caius took a deep breath
“Still, did Gaius Julius Caesar complain about lack of troops or funds at the great siege of Alesia? Or Scipio Africanus outside the walls of New Carthage? This is what makes Romans great, the ability to win great victories against the odds. And Augustus Leontius will be grateful for our success”
“I doubt it” thought Constans “too busy counting the gold he’s stolen from the treasury, gold that could be used to hire some much needed mercenaries.” But he was wise enough to not say it to the Emperors brother.
“Inform the other officers, make the preparations to assault the city.”
******************************************************
Not enough troops, not enough troops thought Constans, not enough troops. They’d got over the walls well enough, but once inside the city the rebels resistance had stiffened. The remnants of the defenders had gathered for a last stand in the cities main plaza, and it wasn’t going well. Andragathius Velerius, the rebel leader with his bodyguard of heavy cavalry was wreaking havoc amongst the assaulting troops. Caius Flavius had to lead his cavalry into the melee, but Constans could see it was too late. Outnumbered to begin with, they’d lost too many troops getting to this point and Constans began to look to rally the troops around him, hoping to execute a fighting withdrawal. It was then he saw a sight that was to break what was left of the army. In the thick of the fighting, Caius was pulled from his horse and disappeared into a throng of rebel troops who set upon his body. The Roman army ran for the gates.
********************************************************
At the end of that year, 368 AD, the great and the good of the Flavius family were gathered in Rome for the marriage of the Caesar Marcus. The celebrations were muted by the failure to re-take Mediolanium, and the death of Caius, a Roman of the Romans, beloved by his family and the people. The bad news continued to come thick and fast. A large army of the Eastern Roman Empire had got bored of living off the land in Ilyricum and laid siege to the city of Salona – and trapped inside was the Empires best general, Nero, the nephew of Augustus Flavius. But even his military genius would not be enough to drive off the besieging army which greatly outnumbered his garrison. Aquincum was the latest in a long line of cities to riot, the arrival of Spurius Flavius and his powerful Christian preaching upsetting that pagan city. It was only a matter of time before his ability to teach others of Christ, and the miracles that his holy relics were capable of brought the people of Aquincum to the Lord, as all the other cities Spurius preached in eventually did. But for now, the pagans were in uproar. To the north the Alemni, undettered by being badly beaten twice in the last couple of years had crossed the Rhine and laid siege to Augusta Vindelicorum.
The newlywed Marcus the Gambler headed straight north, collecting what troops he could along the way, and with his archer heavy army annhiliated the besieging Alemni.
That winter, using reinforcements drawn from the garrison on Sicily, Appius Flavius landed to the north of Salona, trapping the Eastern army between his army and the besieged city. The battle when it came so nearly ended in disaster. The armies of Appius and Nero needed to hit the army of Manius the Mean from front and back at the same time to take advantage of their superior position and numbers. But due to a command mix-up half of Appius’s army was sent way out to the left when battle was joined. Luckily for Nero and Flavius these troops managed to run back to the fighting in the nick of time. The Eastern army was routed, losing 600 men, the western Empire only 150. Salona was relieved, and more importantly for the future of the Empire, Nero Flavius and his army survived.
But this success was the exception rather than the rule, as the Empire continued to struggle. 370 AD was another bad year. The rebel army in Mediolanium sallied out and caught 2 cohorts of reinforcements heading north, forcing them to withdraw – reinforcing the fact that as long as Mediolanium was in rebel hands, the route north from Italy into Germania was dangerous. The Eastern Empire, undettered by their defeat outside Salona, sent another diplomat to Leontius, demanding that he submit to the Eastern Empire as their protectorate. Not surprisingly, the demand was turned down. Desperate to end the fighting with the Eastern Empire (at least till he was stronger) Leontius decided to send a diplomat by sea to Asia Minor, but the small flotilla of Triremes carrying him and his entourage was caught by succession of Eastern fleets, and harried round the Mediterranean before finally meeting its end off the coast of Macedonia, thus ending Leontius’s hopes for peace, and sending the last of his Mediterranean fleet to the bottom.
By 372 Leontius had managed to scrape up enough troops to lay siege to Mediolanium once more, but they were outmaneuvered by the field army of the rebels and forced to withdraw, hoping to meet up with an army coming up from Rome, but before they could make contact Captain Romulus and his 485 men were cut off by 890 rebels. Romulus found a hillside where he hoped to make his stand, he wasn’t expecting to win the day, merely hoping to take as many rebels with him as he could before the inevitable happened. In classic formation with his spears in front and archers behind and a wood protecting his left flank the men charged down the hill towards the advancing rebels more in hope than expectation of victory. Yet somehow, and the survivors of the battle never knew how, they won the day. Nearly 700 rebels lay dead on the hillside, 200 Romans, and Captain Romulus was hailed as a hero throughout the Empire.
Following this decisive defeat of the rebels in northern Italy, 2 years later Decimus Flavius was able to storm the walls of Mediolanium – this time no chances were taken with using an undersized army, an army of over 900 men had been assembled to take on the 400 defenders. 250 men were lost taking the city, but as 200 of these were Foederatii Infantry recruited by previous Emperors, Leontius was quite pleased. In fact he was very pleased, Mediolanium had been re-taken from the rebels, and most of the blood that had been spent to re-take it was barbarian.
To the North, Marcus the Gambler continued to fight battle after battle against the Alemni. It was almost tradition by now that every summer they would cross the Rhine, and every summer they would be soundly defeated by Marcus who was growing to hate Barbarians almost as much as his father. Sick of fighting defensive battles he decided to launch a raid into Alemni territory and met and routed an army led by King Suomar, a mighty warrior with a fearsome reputation.
More good news came from Greece. Nero Flavius, relieved and reinforced by Appius Flavius had set out from Salona looking to take the fight to the Eastern Empire. In the winter of 373 he assaulted Thessalonica, and for the first time Nero fought at night, a feature that would come to characterize his great military career. He had a large army of 1400 men at his disposal, and the 250 defenders stood little chance - although Nero lost 170 men, half of them valuable comitenses, caught on a part of the wall which collapsed when it was successfully undermined by sappers. It was a costly mistake which Nero reproached himself for having made. Having taken the city Nero left a small garrison and marched out to meet an Eastern Empire army coming to the relief of Thessalonica. His 850 troops destroyed the 640 strong enemy army for the loss of only 40 men.
*******************************************************
Augustus Leontius Flavius gave up trying to sleep and sat up on the edge of the bed. Sleep was hard to come by these days. Food was of little intrest to him and what little food he managed to eat normally went straight through him. His wife kept telling him he needed a rest, a nice relaxing trip to one of his villas on the Tuscan coastline. She didn’t understand – couldn’t be expected to, being a woman and all. She couldn’t grasp the concept that the reason he couldn’t sleep or eat was the same reason he couldn’t possibly leave the capital and get away from it all. When Nero took Thessalonica, Leontius began to think that the Lord was going to bless his reign after all, but since then it had been an endless litany of bad news.
First it was those damn Alemni! Where on Earth did they get all their troops from? Every year Marcus would rout them, and the next year they would be back on the offensive again. Following the death of King Suomar in 374, the new King, Hrodgar was back the following spring with an even larger army, nearly 500 men. Marcus, his legion worn down by the constant fighting and lacking reinforcements had no alternative but to retreat back to Roman territory, evidence of Roman weakness that angered and embarrassed father and son in equal measure.
Then came news that those Eastern pretenders to the Roman throne had made an alliance with the rebels in the west! To make matters worse they even came to an arrangement with the rebellious faction in the east that claimed their own throne in Constantinople. So whereas Leontius was surrounded by enemies and traitors, his main rival seemed to be able to make alliances at will.
In Brittania, the rebels struck again, taking over Londinium. The garrison there fled for its life, double-timing it north to Ebaracum and safety.
Then the Saxons, long a fear lurking in the far reaches of Leontius’s mind declared war. A large army, over 1000 men marched into Gaul and laid siege to Colonia Agrippina, and a Saxon fleet blockaded its port.
Meanwhile Thessalonica had never gotten used to being ruled from Rome instead of Constantinople and despite Nero’s balanced and just governorship they kicked him and his army out (the fact that up to a third of the city’s income disappeared in Nero’s purse never occurred to Leontius as a possible reason for the rebellion, as far as he was concerned that was one of the perks of office. Rank Has Its Privileges as he liked to say).
Then came news that the rebels had taken Lepcis Magna. Another city joining the rebellion. With every city that switches sides we grow weaker and they grow stronger lamented Leontius.
And though they weren’t causing trouble yet, Leontius was sure it was only a matter of time before he was at war with the Vandal hordes milling around Sirmium and Huns swarming round Campus Lazyges.
Leontius had difficult decisions to make, and he decided to take as many troops as he could spare from Brittania load them into what was left of his northern fleet and land them in the rear of Saxon territory. His plan was that these provinces should be lightly defended given the large Saxon army camped outside Colonia Agrippina. This army would be able to loot and pillage the lightly defended settlements and draw away the besieging Saxon army.
That was the plan anyway. The small fleet got as far as the Saxon coastline, but as they searched for a suitable landing point they were caught by Saxon warships. Although they lost the battle, the Roman fleet managed to escape, but they sailed straight into a Pirate fleet who they were in no state to resist. The entire fleet was lost, the entire army drowned or sold into slavery by the pirates.
What little hope the small garrison of Colonia Aggripina had of holding out against the Saxon Army that vastly outnumbered them was gone, and in the spring of 376, the city fell. The Saxons moved onto Augusta Vindelicorum and put it under siege. The hatred of Barbarians that burned inside Leontius had become a roaring furnace, yet it seemed there was so little he could do to stop it. He rubbed his tired eyes and shivered in the cold night air. Why could he never sleep at night when he was so tired in the day? He was already awake when the officer of the night watch came into his room to tell him that a messenger had arrived from the Eastern frontier with urgent news. Leontius felt his stomach turn to ice, urgent news was never good news. Not during his reign. He found some clothes and went down to meet the messenger as dawns first rays were piercing the night sky. “Why does it always get colder just before the Sun rises?” he wondered.
“What is your message trooper?”
“Your Highness, I bring urgent news from the East. The army of the Eastern Emperor has besieged Aquincum. I was about to leave Salona with this news when the Vandal hordes arrived outside our city walls, with a giant army, maybe 5000 or more, mainly cavalry. I managed to sneak out of the city at night using a secret exit and have raced here with this news”
“I see” said Leontius “And what of my kin, what of Spurius? Is he still in the city?”
“Yes Sir, even as I left the city, he was speaking to a large crowd of citizens, assuring them that the Lord God would not abandon them to the Godless barbarians, that as long as they put their trust in Him who saved their souls, He would not abandon them.”
A weak smile broke across Flavius’s careworn and tired face “Good old Spurius” he grinned “never misses an opportunity to preach the Gospel. Well, we will not and we cannot abandon him! More importantly we cannot afford to lose the fragments of the One True Cross to those stinking barbarians! Who knows what they will do to them? I doubt they shall even realize the significance of what they posses and will probably use it as firewood! I shall not let that happen!” Suddenly, all the tiredness, the world-weariness seemed to have left Leontius, the thought of losing this most Holy of relics had filled him with a new passion, a new zeal. He turned to the messenger. “Do you know where my brother Nero and his army are camped? I want you to ride there as fast as you can, tell him I’m sending 6 cohorts of troops under Captain Attalus to reinforce him, and that he has first priority on all new troops that we raise. Tell him he must, he MUST break through to Salona and relieve Spurius. We cannot, we cannot, we MUST not lose the fragments of the cross on which our Lord died. Go, go! You have my authority to commandeer as many fresh horses as you need to get to Nero” He turned to the duty scribe. “Scribe, write a letter to my nephew Decimus in Rome, tell him to start raising as many troops as he can afford in Italy, and that as soon as they are trained they are to be marched to Dalmatia to reinforce Nero’s army. And make them good troops mind, troops Nero can use, comitenses and the like. And NO BARBARIANS. I don’t want good Roman legions contaminated by Foederatii scum”
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“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or discouraged because of the King of Assyria and the vast army with him, for there is a greater power with us than with him. With him is only the arm of flesh but with us is the LORD our God to help us and to fight our battles”
Spurius Flavius paused in his reading from the book of 2nd Chronicles and looked up at the vast crowd before him. It was a constant theme in his preaching in the besieged city of Salona, the Vandals as a kind of modern day Assyrian army, vast and ruthless. And if the Vandals were the modern Assyrians, that made King Gondegusulus a kind of modern day Sennacherib. But as he repeatedly assured the people of the city, if they put their trust in the Lord God, just the people of Jerusalem had in Hezekiah’s day, then God would save them. And the inhabitants of this previously pagan city were flocking to the cities church in ever-increasing numbers. There they prayed to the bones of Martha the Martyr, there they knelt and prayed in front of the reliquary that held fragments of the One True Cross. Already many miracles had come to pass, blind people had regained their sight, cripples had walked. Spurius silently thanked God for His goodness and returned to his sermon.
“So let us pray the prayer of Hezekiah, as recorded by the prophet Isaiah “ O Lord Almighty, God of Israel, enthroned between the cherubim, you alone are God over all the Kingdoms of the Earth. You have made heaven and Earth. Give ear O Lord and hear; open your eyes O Lord and see; listen to the words Sennacherib has sent to insult the living God.
It is true O Lord that the Assyrian kings have laid waste all these peoples and their lands. They have thrown their Gods into the fire and destroyed them, for they were not Gods but only wood and stone, fashioned by human hands. Now O Lord our God deliver us from his hand so that all Kingdoms on Earth may know that you alone are God””
And the crowd stood before Spurius spellbound. Wherever he went his powerful preaching and the power of his relics had won a great many converts for Christ, but here in this besieged city, with the threat of annihilation so near, they had flocked to hear him like never before. To the people of Salona, only Spurius and his God could save them from the Vandals.
Just as the God of Spurius had used an Angel of Death to save the children of Israel when they were in slavery in Egypt, just as He had used an Angel of Death to save the people of Jerusalem when they were besieged by the Assyrians, so He would answer the prayers of the people of Salona with another Angel of Death. Only this Angel had a name, and it was Nero Flavius.
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The scout dismounted and marched towards Nero, “Report” the general barked.
“Sir, as you thought, there are 2 Vandal armies in this valley, but they appear to be separate from each other, we saw no evidence that they are in contact, and they appear to think that we will not attack now that it is dark. I estimate the first army has just under 1000 men, the other just over. Mainly horse archers, but some spearmen as well.”
“Very good, prepare your men to move out again.” He turned to his legates “Well then gentlemen, just as I thought, lets show these barbarian scum what dangers lurk in the night”
Just as Nero had planned, in the darkness the 2nd Vandal army was unable (or unwilling) to come to the aid of the 1st army under attack from Nero’s legion. In the darkness Nero had outmaneuvered the enemy and instead of being outnumbered 2 to 1, the numbers were roughly even. The large numbers of enemy horse archers had inflicted over 300 deaths on the Roman army, but unsure of themselves in the darkness, and threatened to be over-run by the Roman Infantry, the Vandals had withdrew before Nero could win a decisive victory. But to the Vandals, un-used to being forced to withdraw by a smaller army, it sure felt like a defeat, and it started to sow the first seeds of doubt in their soldiers minds. And those seeds were watered and nourished 2 weeks later when Captain Attalus, coming down from Italy with Nero’s promised reinforcements out-manuevered and annihilated a Vandal blocking force of 650 men before meeting up with the Generals legion.
His Legion brought back to full strength by the reinforcements, with enough left over to form a reserve, Nero launched a 2nd attack on the Vandals camped east of Salona. To his dismay, over 1000 enemy troops led by the Princes Gildo and Marobodulus slunk away into the night, leaving the 100 troops in their outpost to be massacred by Nero. Lacking large numbers of light cavalry, his infantry heavy army had been unable to pursue and engage the retreating enemy. Not for the first time Nero rued the lack of horse archers of his own. And again he had failed to win a decisive victory, yet as before the Vandals had been forced to retreat at night feeling that they had been defeated once more. Confident that under the leadership of Spurius that Salona was secure for now, Nero withdrew to the foothills east of the city as the year 376 drew to a close. Close enough that the Vandals and the people of Salona knew he was there, far enough away to be safe from Vandal attack. Or so he thought.
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“TO ME!! TO ME!!!” Nero cried. He wheeled his horse around, covered in sweat, breathing hard, the noble beast had run itself into the ground, but Nero knew he would have to coax some more running out of it yet. Over there was a group of half a dozen Foederatii, he made his way towards them “Reform in that wood!” he yelled at them, pointing with his bloodied sword towards a small copse on top of a small hill. A bit further behind them he spotted about 20 comitenses, clearly exhausted by the days killing and dying. He repeated the command to them, and they wheeled round towards the trees, clearly encouraged by the sight of other Roman troops using those woods as a rallying point.
Nero was starting to feel a little better, perhaps all was not lost after all, when he spotted maybe 200 yards away some more of his troops, just a remnant of what had started the day as a full cohort of Roman Comitenses. They were being pursued and whittled away by Vandal cavalry. “FOLLOW MEEEE!” he screamed, and charged towards the enemy, his loyal bodyguard following in his wake. The Vandal horsemen, so caught up in chasing down their rabbits never saw the Roman Cavalry till it was too late – they were smashed to pieces in seconds. The centurion leading this band of stragglers didn’t even have time to thank his general for saving them before Nero was barking out the same orders “Reform in those trees over there”. In this way Nero shepherded what was left of his army to the comparative safety of the woods. When he was sure there were no more of his men left to save he too entered the woods, the last Roman to leave the battlefield that day. The surviving centurions had done a fine job of reorganizing the stragglers into some kind of fighting line. All of them could see the Vandal horse archers tentatively approaching the woods, firing off their arrows as they came in range, but unlike out in the open, most of these arrows were filtered out by the thick canopy overhead. The senior centurion marched over to Nero, exhausted by the days fighting, grief-stricken by the losses, but proud that his men had fought like Romans of old. Julius Caeser, Scipio Africanus, Pompey the Great, they would have been proud to have these men in their legions he thought. “Centurion, prepare the men to withdraw through the woods in an orderly fashion”
The centurion looked at him aghast “Sir? Retreat? But sir, we can ‘ave em! We’ve given ‘em a right good kickin’ today, there can only be a few ‘undred of ‘em left sir! And the men ‘ave given everyfink fer you today sir, I’ve never seen Roman soldiers fight and die like this sir, this is just like it must ‘ave been in the old days like, sir. We can ‘ave em!”
Nero looked at him “I don’t think so Centurion. They may only have a few hundred left, but they’re nearly all horse archers, and me aside, we just don’t have any cavalry left. If we leave these woods we’re easy targets for their arrows. And like you say, we have given them a right good kicking today. Better to withdraw now, it’ll soon be dark and we can meet up with our reserve back in the foothills. We’ve got more reinforcements coming in the new year and we can have another go at them then. They thought they would crush us like a fly today, instead we’ve given them one hell of a bloody nose and we’re withdrawing under our own terms. Let their survivors struggle back to camp and tell of the courage and fighting prowess of the Roman Legions”
“And the courage and leadership of Nero Flavius. We couldn’t have done it without you Sir” grinned the Centurion.
And so the remnants of Nero’s Legion silently made their way back off the battlefield. Most of the men were thinking of their dead comrades they had left behind on the battlefield who even now would be being stripped and looted by the Vandals. Nero on the other hand was ruminating on how it had come to this. To his alarm, that Autumn the Vandals had sent 2 armies in a pincer movement towards him. With the mountains behind blocking any retreat, Nero was forced to meet the Vandals who outnumbered him 2,800 to 1150, his reserve too far away to join the battle. He found a small ridge upon which he lined up his infantry. On his flanks he placed his precious Sarmatian Cavalry. Though not as fast as the Vandal light cavalry, they were tougher and stronger, and if they could close to fight hand to hand they were vastly superior. As was proved when battle was joined. The Sarmatians fought heroically, time and again charging the Vandal mounted archers, and his infantry played their part too, destroying the Vandal infantry. But the Vandals just had too many archers, and eventually he had run out cavalry. Unable to drive off the horse archers, his line began to break in places and Nero had had to order a retreat, knowing full well that he would lose many more men as they were chased down by the Vandal cavalry. Although he had lost nearly 1000 men, he reckoned the Vandals must have lost over twice that. The Vandals may have won the battle, but he had forced them to pay a huge price, and he had survived, as had enough of his army to form a core around which to re-build his legion. If only I had more light cavalry he though, and resolved that when he sat down to write he report to the Emperor he would emphasize his need for horse archers of his own.
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Nero Flavius glared at the forest that engulfed him. It had been over six months since he had departed Sirmium; he should have been in Massilia in a quarter of that time, yet here he sat.
“RUFUS!”
Where was that man? For all his tendencies towards piousness, Nero could not help himself from wishing great harm upon Lucius Vibius Rufus. A full year ago Marcus had sent this guide to bring him to Massilia for the inheritance ceremony. Nero snorted at the thought. Marcus Flavius Felix… EMPEROR. The sheer insanity of it made him want to weep.
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Nero Flavius Valerius was the foremost general in the Empire. While his father, Emperor Leontius, had been busy losing territory, Nero had been busy winning it. Britannia, lost. Africa, lost. Belgica, lost. Even Sicily, the first territory made into a province! Rome had controlled that island for nearly 400 years, but his father had lost it when Eutropius had betrayed them and joined the rebels. Meanwhile Nero had taken lands. He had won glories, been proclaimed Master of Infantry and his name was feared by both barbarians and Roman traitors. Meanwhile Marcus had indulged himself. Sure, he had his share of victories, but the man was known as “the Gambler” for a reason. He had been proclaimed Count of the Saxon Shore, yet the Saxon Shore had been lost years ago. It was a hollow title for a hollow man. Yet he had inherited the throne, not Nero.
“It seems he had the one thing that was more important than all my accomplishments,” he mumbled, “An extra year.” He eyed the trees around him. “Maybe Eutropius was smarter than I thought.”
“Who, sir?”
Nero turned in his saddle. The dirty, red-headed peasant was standing behind him. How could such an ignorant buffoon move so damn quietly? “You had better have good news.”
“Certainly, sir. I have found a small village where we can spend the night. It is just a short way in that direction.” He pointed back through the underbrush from which he must have come.
Nero sighed and gestured to the man to lead the way. Hopefully he would not lose his way again. When Marcus had been proclaimed Augustus, he had obviously seen the value in his brother that his father had missed. Rufus had arrived with a message that Nero was to be made heir to the Empire until Marcus’ son Illus came of age. Nero had waited long enough for his adopted cousin Procopius to arrive from Salona, then he had turned over his military retinue and title and set out with Lucius Vibius Rufus for Massilia. Giving up his Legions had been difficult, but it had been worth it.
Everything should have gone smoothly, but this fool of a guide had spoiled all of his plans. It was strange, now that he though of it. Rufus seemed to move with intelligence and experience, but they always ended up in the wrong place. While it was true that the roads in these areas were poor and the numerous bandits had made the area difficult to cross, the journey should not have taken this long. Soon Illus Flavius would be twelve, another year closer to maturity. That did not concern him though; neither Marcus nor Illus would live long once he was proclaimed heir, and not even this incompetent pleb could get lost for another four years. Fratricide may be a sin, but surely God would not mind the death of a couple blasphemous Nestorians, especially not if it would make a true Christian like himself Emperor. Nero crossed himself and turned his horse to follow Rufus.
It took an hour, but eventually a small settlement appeared before them. As they passed through the gate, Nero looked curiously at the construction of the wooden walls. They had certainly looked Roman from afar, but close-up it was clear that they had been designed by someone with far less experience than the average engineer. Where had Rufus led him them this time? Nero sighed, resigned to yet another night of nearly inedible food and lice-infested bedding.
He was still looking at the walls when the arrow struck him in the chest. Somehow Nero managed to stay in his saddle, but he knew in an instant that the wound was mortal. He grasped the shaft protruding from his breast, staring at it, unbelieving. Why were there bandits inside the walls? Why had there been no demand for ransom? Another shaft struck him in the right shoulder and he toppled to the ground.
Men closed in from all around him. With great effort, Nero looked up towards the center of town. Lucius Vibius Rufus was on the main road, in conversation with an elder villager. For a moment, the guide’s eyes turned towards him. The last thing he noticed before the knives bit into him was the slight smile on Rufus’ face.
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“Close the doors!”
It was all Spurius’ fault. Burdigala had been a peaceful city until Cnaeus’ brother had arrived in the province. True, the people had been poor and far from happy, but they had never rioted like this. This had started with Spurius’ religious rantings. For the past year he had been traveling the province, preaching to anyone he came across. Many had converted, many more had not. With Cnaeus as governor, the province still officially remained Pagan, despite the fact that the temple to Jupiter Best and Greatest had been destroyed long ago and never rebuilt. Spurius’ new followers were not pleased with his refusal to their demands for a church and the daily gatherings had quickly erupted into open violence in the streets.
“Put archers on the roof. Kill anyone that gets close to the walls.”
His bodyguards rushed to comply. They feared him almost as much as the city did. Cnaeus the Harsh they called him in public. In private, the words were far less polite. Let the Furies take them. It was all coming to an end anyway.
Once the Romans had been the mightiest people on the planet; now the very fabric of the Empire was being torn asunder. In addition to the territories lost under Leontius, Colonia Agrippina and Augusta Treverorum had recently revolted and joined the rebels. Over a third of the Western Empire was now no longer under the control of Rome.
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“You!” Cnaeus gestured at the nearest servant, “bring me wine!”
Rome. How the name made him want to cry. It was no longer even the capital of the Empire. It was a betrayal of all that was true to move the center to Massilia. Not even Emperor Marcus liked it enough to reside there, he chose to stay in Mediolanum if rumors were true. At least it wasn’t Arles, the chosen seat of his adopted son Petronius. The man had achieved nothing, become nothing.
“I should have known better than to adopt a Christian,” he said to no one in particular.
The worst part of it was that Petronius was the best relative he had left. He was grandson to Emperor Valentinianus, nephew to Emperor Leontius and cousin to Emperor Marcus, but his own family had all been miserable failures. Both his father Cassius and his younger brother Gratianus had been renowned for their cowardice before they died, but at least they had been loyal. His older brother Titus had been the man who led the first rebellion and his adopted grandson Crispus had joined him ten years later. At least his son Lentulus had been good enough to die in battle. Now there was Cnaeus and Petronius the Nothing. And Spurius, the cause of all… this.
To be fair, there had been hopeful news lately. The Celts had proposed a peace, though that was largely an empty gesture since Britannia was lost with no prospects for re-conquest.
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More significantly, Appius Flavius was besieging Augusta Treverorum and would hopefully bring that city back under the control of the Emperor. Even better, the great Macedonian city of Thessalonica was currently invested by Procopius Flavius.
Yet none of this mattered to the crowd gathered outside.
“cnaeus…”
“Cnaeus…”
“CNAEUS…”
The angry chanting was getting very loud; it would not be long before they were at the walls of the Pro-consul’s Palace. Suddenly there was a huge crash and the fortified doors shook under an impact. Muffled shouts came from the battlements where the archers were preparing to loose. Shortly after, piercing screams came from beyond the door.
The next thirty seconds passed like an eternity. Finally, Cnaeus exhaled. He hadn’t even realized he had been holding his breath. The demonstration seemed to have worked; there had not been a second blow to the doors, though the chanting continued. When this was done, the leaders of these rioters would be dealt with even more brutally than usual. Attacking the Palace was a serious offense, and Cnaeus was not known for his lenience.
“In the name of Bacchus, where is my damned wine!?”
He spun in place, looking for the servant he had seen before. Instead he found himself staring into the face of his chef’s new assistant. The man must have been standing there since the pounding; there was no other way Cnaeus could have missed the sound of his footsteps.
“Your wine, Governor.”
Cnaeus took the proffered cup. “You had best learn to respond faster if you expect to remain in my service,” he said icily. Torture always calmed him. Perhaps this man could contribute more than wine to his master’s peace of mind.
“CNAEUS...”
“CNAEUS…”
That damned chanting would probably go on all night. Maybe if a few more of them grew wood and feather appendages, they would quiet down. Cnaeus turned and marched off to find a guard. First he would deal with the rioters, then he could relax to screams of pain rather than anger.
“Guards! Guards! A rioter has killed the Governor!”
It took a moment for the words to register. He stopped in his tracks and was just beginning to turn when the tip of a blade sprouted from his chest. He looked at it curiously for a moment, before crumpling to his knees. He couldn’t breathe. It was as if a block of marble was crushing his chest. Cnaeus fell fully to the floor.
He could see the chef’s assistant now. The man was waving and shouting frantically, pointing at Cnaeus. His last thought, as the darkness closed over him, was to note how rare it was for a Roman to have such vibrantly red hair.
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Procopius watched and waited. His advisors had promised victory, but the general was still nervous at the prospect of his first battle. Despite being named Master of Infantry and given command of Nero Flavius’ legions, it was the now dead general’s retinue which provided nearly all of the tactical advice for the assault on Thessalonica. Procopius himself had made the initial decision to assault quickly with massed ladders and no siege engines. The others had complained that this was risky and that a proper siege should use the full force of Roman engineering.
“Perhaps,” Procopius had replied, “but the longer we wait outside the walls, the more likely the rebels will send a relief force.” In the end, he had simply overruled them. He may be young, but he was also in charge. Everything else had been done by the war council. In particular that East Roman had been immensely useful. He seemed to be equally as skilled in fighting Western rebels as his own people.
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The Equites Sagittarii moved forward to harass the enemies holding the walls. There were Comitatenses and Limitanei up there, but there were also untrained peasants. When the city had revolted, some soldiers had gone over to the pretenders, but mostly it had just been a mob of poorly-armed plebeians. Once they broke the soldiers on the walls and took the gates, the rest was inevitable.
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Five cohorts of Comitatenses were now approaching the western wall, with all their cavalry and more infantry waiting for the gates to open. The rebels had put all of their strength here to prevent this breach. Somehow that Eastern fellow had expected this, and it was thanks to him that two cohorts would be sneaking towards the undefended northern walls even now. While the main force stormed the walls head-on, they would take the north gate and then rush along the battlements to flank the defenders.
…
Procopius wiped his blade on his toga and sheathed it. He looked at the few remaining Limitanei still fighting in the square. The city was lost, but for some reason they kept fighting.
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The walls had been a bloody affair. The northern-most of the assaulting cohorts had arrived on a section defended by rebel Comitatenses and peasants. They had panicked there, attacked from two sides and had suffered greatly before the northern cohorts arrived to aid them.
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The fighting at the gatehouse had been particularly brutal, but in the end the rebels had died to a man.
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When the cavalry and reserve infantry had flooded the streets, the enemy rout had begun. It was a massacre.
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“A fitting end for rebels,” he said to no one in particular, then turned his horse and moved off to find the city palace. Tonight he would rest. Tomorrow he would begin to plan for Athens. Yes, he was young, but there would be many battles ahead and he would learn.
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“CLOSE THE GATES! CLOSE THE BLOODY GATES!”
Bonifatius Vipsanius watched in horror as the Hunnic heavy horse smashed aside the few men attempting to do just that. If the north gate was lost, so was the city.
The previous season, Bonifatius had led the uprising against the soldiers who had betrayed the Empire two years before that. That had been a rebellion based on greed. The loyalist rebellion had been based on justice. The self-proclaimed ‘rebels’ had starved and exploited the people of Colonia Agrippina. Bonifatius had convinced them to take up arms and throw out the pretenders and by Gods they had done it. An army of peasants had massacred the traitorous soldiers and returned the city to Emperor Marcus.
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Bonifatius shouted to the dozen bodyguards that remained and spurred his horse towards the town center. No sooner had they reclaimed their liberty and returned to the Empire than this terror had descended upon them from the east. There was no warning, not even any demands. The horsemen had simply ridden in, slaughtered the farmers in the fields and invested the city. There were barely a handful of them out there, but they fought like demons and Bonifatius had nothing but the peasants who had risen up so heroically last winter to oppose them. Even with a four to one advantage in numbers, their defeat seemed certain.
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Things had seemed so promising. Shortly after the uprising, news had come that Appius Flavius had stormed the walls of Augusta Treverorum with siege towers and killed the traitors there too.
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They had been told that Oppius Flavius, the famously courageous governor of Avaricum, was on his way to help organize the defenses of Colonia Agrippina. News came too from Britannia. The people of that island, beset by both Celts and Saxons, had risen up in a pro-Roman movement.
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The emergence of the Romano-British, while not yet under the control of Emperor Marcus, would surely voluntarily return to the Empire once they regained control of their lands. Bonifatius had once dreamed of meeting the leader of that great pro-Roman rebellion and celebrating as only those who had overcome their oppressors could do.
That dream had died only minutes ago. The Huns had not waited to starve out the city.
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They had built a massive ram and begun to move it towards the eastern gate. If they broke the gate, there would be no stopping them. In desperation, Bonifatius had gathered the two dozen experienced soldiers who had joined him and rode out to destroy the ram before they were themselves destroyed. It was an incredibility brave move. It was also incredibly unsuccessful. The Hunnic infantry had simply dropped the ram and torn half his riders from their seats. Bonifatius and his men had inflicted large casualties on the infantry, but the ram sat unharmed.
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Then the Hunnic leader and his elite warriors had personally charged them and they had been forced to retreat.
The demonic Huns had not stopped following though and they had ridden so hard that Bonifatius had been forced to divert to the northern gate in an attempt to lose them. It had failed and the enemy had followed them in. In the distance he could hear the ram now pounding on the eastern gate. Not that it mattered, they had an entrance now.
“To the square! Rally to the square!”
The frightened peasants attempted to form up into an orderly battle line, but Bonifatius only saw a mass of disorganized men. Surely their sheer numbers could take down the enemy if they came here. Perhaps they could create barricades in the streets and hold here until the Oppius Flavius and relief army arrived. It could not be far away, could it? Maybe if they could hold for just one night, they would be reinforced.
Screams of terror told him that one night might as well be an eternity. The bloody insanity that was the Hunnic leader had not even paused to secure the gate he had taken. Bodies flew in every direction as the forty heavy horse charged directly into the mass of men.
“There are only a few of them! Take them!” he yelled to the men around him. They must have outnumbered the enemy by over ten to one, surely that would be enough. “KILL THEM!”
He charged, urging the peasants forward with his bravery. Surely five hundred men could kill forty. “There are only a few of them!” he cried as his sword caught on the shield of the Hun to his right. “There are only a few of them!” he screamed as his belly was torn open by a brutal slash. “There are… only…. a few…”
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Procopius shook his head in disgust.
“What more do they want of me?” Athens was turning into a nightmare. These Greeks never seemed to be happy, no matter what he did. “Some days I wish I were a less civilized man. This city could do with a good sack.”
The riots had not stopped for even one day since they had taken the city. He had fought three battles against the Eastern Romans in two years and won them all, but he could not win the peace.
“If only Luca was one of the rioters, then I might have a chance of pacifying them.”
The Eastern Roman general Luca Flavius had clashed with Procopius twice before he had moved on Athens. A year after Thessalonica had been regained Luca had appeared north of the city in full battle order with a menacing force. Procopius had nearly drained the entire garrison of the city and gone to meet him head-on.
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It had been the most glorious victory of his short career. Two professional armies, equally matched on an open field, and he had devastated the enemy. The horse archers had harassed and demoralized the Eastern infantry in their battle lines.
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Eventually the ploy had worked and Luca had ordered his men forward to the decisive clash of arms. His veteran Comitatenses had simply massacred their opponents. The javelin volleys had been fearsomely effective.
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The charge that followed had been even more so.
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When he saw his infantry rout, Luca had fled the field with all his horse.
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The large cavalry force had escaped intact, but the body of the army had been left dying on the field with hardly a loss in Procopius’ legion.
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Shortly afterwards, Procopius had received a report that Athens was lightly held. He had dispatched a small, but highly effective, expeditionary force to begin the preparations for the attack on the city. He had planned on following after them within months, but Luca had spoiled those plans.
The Eastern general had returned one year after their first battle with a slightly reinforced group.
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The enemy’s heart was still the cavalry that had fled with him from their previous encounter. Procopius had affected a similar result, though in a less dramatic manner. The Equites Sagittarii had skirmished and harassed the enemy, drawing them out of organized lines where they could be ravaged by massed volleys of javelins from the Comitatenses.
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Eventually Luca had lost his nerve and fled once again with his cavalry, though this time only a third of it escaped.
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This attack had delayed his march on Athens by an entire season and it wasn’t until the summer of 392 that he finally reached the city. He found the expeditionary force had done their work well though. Two siege towers were already completed and Procopius had ordered the assault the day after their arrival.
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The tiny Eastern garrison had been easily overcome, though governor Gnaeus had fought and died bravely. Procopius had had the man’s body treated with honor and buried with great respect.
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“I’ve done nothing to harm these people at all, what more can I do?” The taking of the city was a political matter, not a personal one. It shouldn’t have altered the lives of the Greeks at all, yet they acted as if Satan himself had descended upon them.
Procopius sighed. “Strengthen the garrison further and fix the damage those people have done.” He would continue to show restraint. Maybe they would come to their senses soon.
“Good to see you old friend!”
Marcellus clapped Herius Corpulentius on the back, grinning wildly. Herius smiled faintly, “I wish the meeting had not come under such circumstances.”
“BAH! You’ve become too serious in your old age. We’ll come out of this well, I swear it,” replied Marcellus, his eyes glittering.
“Come out well? How could we possibly benefit from being removed from our governorships and shipped off to bloody Britannia?”
Marcellus laughed. “Well, for one, we’ll be away from all these damn Christians!”
Servius Flavius had converted Corduba by force even before Augustus Marcus had inherited the Empire. That had been bad enough, but he had not had the strength to spread Christianity to the rest of Iberia. Once Gaul had gone Christian though, the total conversion of the peninsula had become inevitable. Tarraco had officially converted a few years before and then Spurius Flavius had arrived at Carthago Novo.
He brought with him orders from Emperor Marcus that Herius Corpulentius and Publius Flavius were to travel west to Salamantica, where they would meet up with Marcellus Flavius. Once assembled, the men would set sail for Britannia Superior to negotiate with the leaders of the Romano-British. With luck, they could be brought back into the empire or at very least be made allies until the Huns and Saxons were crushed.
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“True, very true. I’ve heard that the Romano-British leader has proclaimed himself a Christian though!” sighed Herius.
Marcellus snorted, “Ah, who cares? The whole province is as true to the Old Gods as any place left in the world. Their god can have the leader, our Gods will keep the people.”
Herius paused to consider this. “Don’t you find it odd that all of the non-Christian governors have been assembled for this mission? Why send three men and if three men are necessary, why are none of them Christian?”
Marcellus’ smile faded. “Yes, I know. That has occurred to me as well,” the smiled returned, “but we worry over nothing! We are all loyal men and the worship of the Old Gods is not a crime. Why, the Emperor’s own brother has refused to convert. As long as Oppius Flavius lives, we have nothing to worry about.” Marcellus slapped him on the back again. “Come, let us find Publius.”
A fortnight later they had arrived at the coast. The ship that they were to take north was brand new, specially built for the purpose. Marcellus had supervised its construction and he had spared not a single coin of the Emperor’s taxes in ensuring that it was superbly constructed and lavishly outfitted. After all, it would carry three governors on a long voyage; no civilized person could expect them to do without silken pillows and lark’s tongues.
Despite the fine quarters and the pristine state of the ship, there was a pall over the honored passengers. As wondrous as the transport was, it was nothing in comparison to the splendor in which they had lived the majority of their lives. Iberia had been comfortable and their liberal use of the Imperial taxes had made it even more so.
All three stood on deck, watching the port fall away behind them. Their tranquility was broken by a slight cough. As one, they turned to regard the manservant standing behind them. He was holding a tray of finely wrought golden goblets.
“I thought you might like to drink a toast to your journey, masters,” he said, his eyes lowered.
Marcellus smiled and some of the tension dropped out of the trio. “Yes, we should toast: a farewell to damned Christians!”
Publius and Herius roared. All three took the goblets and drank deeply.
“A fine vintage,” admired Publius. He turned to the manservant, “well done, uh… what was your name?”
The man looked him in the eye and grinned.
“Lucius, sir. Lucius Vibius Rufus.”
Gallus Papinianus looked at the blood seeping through his tunic and groaned. So much promise, so much effort and it would end here, in a grassy field at the base of Mount Etna.
When Marcus Flavius became Emperor in 387, he had immediately made it clear that he would expend enormous efforts to recapture Sicily and the lost African provinces. For years, the preparations had gone on. All military production in Rome was diverted to the training and equipping of elite, heavily armored Plumbatarii. Gallus himself, then the young governor of Tarentum, was given responsibility for construction of a new fleet to transport the African Legion across the sea, where they would eventually reclaim Carthage and the lost provinces.
He had come to Rome with the fleet to personally deliver it to Emperor Marcus. He had been saddened to learn that Augustus Marcus had never left Mediolanum and would not be present. However, a military tribune had delivered a reward that was far greater than he could ever have dreamed of, personal command of the first four cohorts of the African Legion. The remainder had not yet been raised, but his orders were to take this vanguard, sail to Sicily and take Syracuse. The previous year, a spy sent to the city had reported that it was held by nothing more than Eutropius Flavius’ personal guard. Four cohorts were more than enough to take the city, and Emperor Marcus wanted his treacherous cousin dead.
They had sailed and they had won. Eutropius had been pulled from his saddle and killed in the town square.
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As per Marcus’ orders, the temple had been pulled down and a new church constructed in its place. For his part, Gallus had preached the word of God. Some had listened, but not many. Not enough. The old gods did not die easily it seemed.
Gallus had managed to raise two cohorts of Limitanei from the converts, but it was not enough to keep the peace. A year after taking the city, it rose up in force and proclaimed a former legionary named Posthumus Maenius as Governor. Gallus, the African Legion vanguard and the two garrison cohorts had managed to escape Syracuse, but the fleet was too far away and they were cut off west of the city.
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Gallus drew up his men in a defensive formation and waited for the inevitable assault.
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The African Legion cohorts were far superior to their adversaries, but they were outnumbered five to one. They rained darts down upon the rebels, but for every one that fell, three more seemed to take his place. Eventually their darts ran out and Gallus had ordered them into a charge. Half the enemy force was composed of nothing more than angry peasants. They could easily be routed. If their panic could then be spread to the rest… well… it was a chance at least.
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The men had fought valiantly and half of the enemy had fallen in the field, but eventually the numbers overwhelmed them. With no battle lines to speak of, the cohorts were whittled down and forced into a small cluster where they were slain.
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When the last men finally broke, Gallus turned and fled with them, his entire bodyguard having been already cut down. He managed to break through the encircling rebels, but not before Posthumus himself had slashed him from behind.
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Bleeding badly, Gallus had galloped for an hour before he became too weak to continue. He had fallen from his horse and here he lay dying. He had failed Emperor Marcus. He had failed his men. He would never see his beautiful Antistia again. Gallus wondered whether his body would ever be found.
The wind whistled maddeningly through the trees. It had been brutally cold for a week now and the clouds had been so thick that they had not seen the sun in days. His men seemed to be cocooned inside their furs, but Oppius Flavius barely flinched.
“Keep moving! Any man who stops will be left to freeze.”
Despite his age, the Emperor’s only surviving brother was a tough man. The Count of the Household Cavalry and the long-time governor of Avaricum had more campaign experience than any man alive. Alive. At one time he could never have made such a statement. The third son of Emperor Leontius, Oppius had been born into a family of military experts. Though Nero had distinguished himself above the others, each had been regarded as masters of the art. Now there were only two left. Placus had been killed in battle ten years before and Nero…
He still did not believe the stories. Nero had been the greatest general in the Western Empire. The man had lived in the saddle. Yet, they said he had become lost, wandering aimlessly in the eastern wilderness and been ambushed by bandits. Oppius knew this was a lie; no untrained bandits could ever have surprised Nero, let alone killed him. It was not a question of who had betrayed his brother, only how and why.
“Spread out! Fatigue is no excuse for compromising safety!”
The group opened up almost immediately. He had trained these men hard, but he had not asked of them anything he did not require of himself. Oppius was often in the front rank during battle, more than once the first to draw blood on the entire battlefield. He cleaned his own armor and weaponry and joined them on every march and in every exercise. His men called him Gaius Oppius and they would die for him.
Some would likely do so soon. The messenger from Marcus had arrived months ago detailing the invasion of the Hunnic hordes. Oppius had been ordered to head to Augusta Treverorum and lead the legions there against the forces besieging Colonia Agrippina. His own legion had been forced to remain behind to garrison Avaricum. Damned Christians. Ever since Constantine had allowed the free practice of that religion, it had spread like a plague, causing strife and civil unrest wherever it went. Oppius was not the only Roman who thought the Empire had been in decline ever since. He muttered a prayer to Mars and lifted his head.
“Keep your eyes on the trees. I do not trust this country.”
Gaul itself had remained blessedly true to the Old Gods… until Marcus. That lying heathen of a brother had unleashed Spurius upon the provinces and Oppius’ people had been converted by the word and the pyre. Yet nothing could be done… Spurius was Marcus’ pet. Cnaeus had tried to oppose the Christian, despite Marcus’ decrees. Oppius did not believe the stories about that either.
“Marcus…” he murmured.
“Sir.” An outrider galloped alongside. “We spotted a lone rider deep in the woods to the west.”
“Just one?” replied Oppius.
“Yes, sir, but there was something odd about him.”
Oppius gazed into the man’s eyes. The scout nervousness was hidden deep, but it was there.
“He had been following us for a few minutes, paralleling us from a long way off. I glanced away for a moment, no more than a few seconds, but when I looked back he was gone. There was nowhere to hide a man and a horse in that area, yet I saw nothing but empty snow.” The outrider dropped his voice. “I… I swear… the man… he was staring at me the whole time. He was half a mile off, but I swear he was looking right at me.”
Damned Huns. They were worthy opponents. The news of Colonia Agrippina’s fall had reached him before they had even left Belgicum. Scouts had reported that they had settled large areas around the city and had begun to build forges and stables. They intended a long war. Oppius was here to give it to them.
“Get back to your position and report anything… ANYTHING. If a crow farts, I want to know about it.”
To save time, he had ordered the Augusta Treverorum legions to meet him north of the city. Until they reached the though camp, his small bodyguard was vulnerable. “Perhaps they are calling the wrong brother ‘the Gambler.’” Oppius snorted at the thought.
AAAAWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
The forest echoed with the sound of two dozen men drawing their swords. Without a word they formed their horses into a circle, facing out.
AAAAWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
A dark line appeared on the horizon. Mounted men. Many of them. Oppius glanced to his rear. The line was there too. East, west, they were completely encircled. There were hundreds of them, and they were approaching fast. Very fast.
“Form a wedge!” His men responded without a word. “On my signal, we charge directly ahead. We will break their line and continue north. Do not slow for anything. Anyone who falls behind will be left for dead!”
The enemy line closed. Oppius gave the word and it began. As he dug his heels into his mount, he turned his head and looked west. Beyond the line of Huns he could see a lone rider, far off. Despite the extreme distance, Oppius knew the man was looking directly at him. For the briefest of moments, Oppius could have sworn he saw a flash of red hair. The figure flickered slightly and there was a horn at his mouth.
AAAAWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
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From the deck of his ship, Posthumus Maenius watched the smoke collected in the sky over Athens. It would be there for days, trapped between the mountains and the coast; a reminder of all that he had lost.
It had been only five years since his glorious destruction of the pride of the Western Empire. He had been celebrated as a hero by the plebeians and the patricians; all who had rejected the tyranny of Flavian rule and sought to create a better empire. They had been strong then. Though Thessalonica had been lost, they had still been strong. Carthage, North Africa, Sicily and Greece had remained under their control. Rich lands that had produced the means by which to take Rome itself. Nearly all gone now.
Only a year after the victory at Syracuse, word had come that Athens was under siege. If Greece fell, the recapture of Thessalonica would have been impossible and the wealth of the Balkans would have been closed to them for good. The city had to be saved and Posthumus had to be the one to do it. He controlled the largest army the rebels could field and he was also the only man alive who had beaten the enemy in open battle.
A fleet had been assembled and his men had departed, their spirits high. They had sailed into the Gulf of Corinth, so as to take the besieging army from the rear and smash it against the anvil of Athens’ great walls. They had found the situation exactly as they had expected it, though the circumstances had changed. Fisherman had told them that the city had actually fallen in 391 and been occupied by the enemy for a year and a half. Then the citizens had risen up and re-taken the city, under the leadership of a former centurion named Equitius Mamilius. The Flavians had evacuated the city in good order though and had immediately invested it, cutting off nearly all food supplies.
The situation had remained this way for almost a year and it appeared that Marcus’ dog, General Procopius Flavius, was nearing completion on the engines necessary to re-take the walls. Though the uprising had been popular, the enemy had left little behind in the way of arms and armor. Equitius had barely half the strength of his opponent, and much of that was mounted; he would have great difficulty holding the walls against massed Comitatenses. Posthumus had been forced to move immediately.
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As the large Sicilian force disembarked, word came that the besiegers had disappeared. Their camp, their siege engines and their men… vanished, presumably into the Peloponnese. Posthumus had marched immediately for the city, to unite his forces with Equitius’ and then turn south to crush the enemy with their combined strength. The former centurian had opened the gates and brought his men out to meet their comrades. It was then that the trap had been sprung.
Procopius had not gone south, it seemed. Instead, he had hidden his legions in the shadow of a large hill west of the city. As Equitius’ men rode along its crest, unawares, the Flavians charged up it force.
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The Athenian horse had wheeled wildly and charged them in a desperate attempt to push the enemy back down the hill. They had taken horrible losses.
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Posthumus himself had been close enough to see this action and had at once pushed his men to the limit, moving them as fast as possible so as to aid their brethren.
They had not been fast enough though. The Athenians had been routed to great effect and the survivors had fled back to the city with barely half their strength. By the time the Sicilians had arrived, the enemy had reformed their lines at the crest of the hill.
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A massive melee had erupted along the entire length of the armies.
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For a while, it had appeared that they had gained the upper hand on the enemy’s left flank. Posthumus had personally led most of the reserve cavalry to this point to try and tip the balance. They had pushed deep into the red ranks and he had had the briefest glimpse of victory.
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Then Procopius had committed his own reserve to the fight and had outflanked them.
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His men fought bravely, but their losses soon became too great. As their right flank collapsed, the panic spread and soon the whole army was in flight.
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Posthumus had tried desperately to rally them, but it had been hopeless. With his bodyguard entirely slain and his hopes smashed, he had barely managed to escape with his life. Procopius had personally chased him off the field and had nearly caught him.
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The survivors had returned to the safety of the fleet in the Gulf of Corinth, but not even a quarter of the berths were occupied that evening.
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Posthumus had drowned himself in wine, but sleep would not come to him. The next morning Athens fell.
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As if this had not been bad enough, news arrived the following week of a revolt in Syracuse. It seemed that the seeds of Christianity that Gallus Papinianus had sown had grown into an army. A Christian by the name of Spurius Cipius had plotted with many of the coverts to take the city. As the garrison slept, they had fallen upon them in their barracks, killing those who did not join them. By morning the city had been theirs and they had immediately declared loyalty to the Flavians.
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Those who still worshipped the Old Gods had rioted violently, but they had been quelled when the full strength of the so-called African Legion had arrived to support the loyalists. Their general, a young Flavian named Maxentius, imposed harsh punishments on those who remained loyal to the rebellion and all hopes of another glorious uprising had been crushed.
Posthumus had remained at the bottom of a bottle for a month as his men similarly drowned their miseries on the fleet. The Flavians had practically no navy to speak of and they had been safe only a few hundred meters off shore. Eventually Posthumus had recovered his dignity had decided what to do next. Not all the news was bad. Athens still strained under the Flavian yoke and rioting had continued despite the second conquest of the city. In the north, Thessalonica had been assaulted by the Eastern Empire.
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While the attack had failed, it was clear that the enemy’s position was not insurmountable. Their forces were limited, their supplies thin, and they were still surrounded by foes.
Using spies, Posthumus had managed to make contact with the new leader of the rebellious Greeks, a merchant named Libius Fundanus. Together, they had planned yet another uprising. This time, they would isolate and destroy the individual cohorts within the city, preventing them from escaping into the countryside where their full might could be unleashed. The plan might have succeeded had they not been betrayed. It seemed that Procopius had infiltrated the group with his own agents and they had warned him of what was planned. On the night of the attack they had found the barracks empty, the garrison gone.
When the sun rose the next morning, the Flavian forces stood in full battle array on a hill not far from the city. There was no doubt that they would invest the city again as soon as possible. Posthumus and Libius had agreed that they had no choice but to give battle and attempt to defeat them in the open. They did not have enough men to man the walls and the Flavians had proven themselves to be masters of siegecraft.
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The attack had been glorious and desperate. The Flavians had drawn themselves up in a superb defensive position; on a hill with their left flank protected by a massive rock outcrop.
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They had had no choice but to engage in a frontal assault. As in the previous battle, the melee had been intense. Unlike the previous battle, it had not been close. Libius had been killed quickly, trying to lead his men with an inspirational charge.
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The Greeks and Sicilians had fought on, but it had been hopeless.
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When the rout finally began, the butchery was unimaginable. Posthumus had charged at Procopius in desperation, hoping to be slain and thus saved the humiliation of yet another defeat. It was not to be though, his horse had panicked and run, denying him a glorious death in battle. When he finally arrived back at the fleet, he found less than fifty survivors waiting for him.
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“Raise the anchor!”
The shout of the ship captain brought him out of his trance. Posthumus looked to the side and saw that most of the other ships had already begun to move off. Carthage. There was no where else to go. Athens had fallen within hours of battle. With no one left to man the gates, the Flavians had simply walked back in. He had no home, he had no army; he had failed.
Posthumus turned to a boy standing near him, “Bring me a jug of wine.” The child darted off without a word.
Hours later, the cliffs began to drop away and the great sea finally revealed itself to them.
“Ship ahead!”
Posthumus looked up. Squinting into the light of the sun low on the horizon, he could barely make out a blotch on the water. Slowly the ships formed into a defensive formation. After several minutes of silence, a friendly banner was spotted. Tension evaporated from the sailors and they returned to their normal duties. The ship had come alongside his within half an hour and a messenger had been rowed across.
Inside his cabin, the desperation on the man’s face told him all he needed to know. “For you sir,” the man said and held out a piece of parchment. Posthumus took it and read it.
“Leave me,” he said, speaking to the floor.
The man did and the hero of the rebellion sat alone in silence. He looked at his sword, lying on the table to his right. It would be so easy to end it all now. Had not Cato the Younger done just that when he had lost all? Posthumus dropped his eyes back to the floor. He knew he could not. His horse, yes… his horse had run from the last battle. That was what he had told himself every night since. Yet he knew it was not true. His spirit had been broken, but he was still afraid of dying.
He raised his eyes and stared at the sword. He gazed blankly at it for a long time before his eyes shifted to the jug standing beside it. As he stood and walked over to it, the parchment fell from his hand. It fluttered faintly as it settled on the floor of the cabin. As the light of the dying sun fell on it, two words stood out from the rest.
“…Carthage… …lost…”
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“Constantinople.”
The imperial servants jumped as Emperor Marcus Flavius roared with laughter.
“The Empire is united! The Eastern Fool has lost his chair!”
Marcus shrieked hysterically for a moment, then broke off suddenly as pain wracked him. He jerked back in his chair, hissing in air through his teeth.
Half a dozen servants rushed forward. “Emperor, are you alright?” asked the eldest, his eyes wide.
Marcus gritted his teeth, “Yes, just the same gut pains. Nothing to worry about.”
“Shall I send for the Chirugeon?” asked the servant.
Marcus waved his hand dismissively, “Bring me Rufus.”
The youngest servant, no more than a boy, rushed out of the room with the message. When Lucius Vibius Rufus arrived, the Emperor dismissed them all. The Emperor’s personal agent approached the throne; his movements utterly silent.
“Have you heard the news?” Marcus’ eyes were once again wild with glee. “The expeditionary force the Procopius sent from Thessalonica has taken Constantinople!”
Rufus’ face showed no expression, “Yes, I heard two days ago.”
Marcus’ eyes narrowed. Despite the many years he had used the red-haired killer, he had never fully trusted him. Most of the known world was humbled at the feet of the Roman Emperor, but this one had never once shown the slightly glimmer of fear or subservience. The man was good at killing; almost too good. “I supposed you would. You do always seem to know what had happened before anyone else.”
“Is that not why you employ me, sire?” Rufus bowed ever so slightly.
“One of many reasons, yes.” Marcus sighed and sat back in the throne. “I will admit that the speed of the conquest surprised me, if not its end result. Constantinople was strongly defended; I expected a protracted siege before it fell.”
“The Eastern Emperor attempted to stop the force in the field several days west of the city,” replied Rufus. “He sent the Legio I Claudia Pia Fidelis to intercept them.”
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“Captain Herennius met them in full force, smashed their left flank and annihilated them.”
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“With the Legio II lying dead outside Thessalonica, there was little left with which to defend the walls. Those who remained gambled on a sally, knowing they would lose a fight for the streets. Herennius dealt with them in a similar manner and then, from all accounts, simply walked into the undefended city.”
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The Emperor exalted in the wonder of it. “Let’s hope the good Captain can keep control of the place. I would not be pleased if we suffered yet another rebellion. Speaking of which, I have already ordered that Procopius be rewarded for his services. He is to be named Master of Offices for the Empire.”
Rufus’ face hardly moved, “How generous, sire.”
“Yes, well, he has served me faithfully and he is of no threat to me. Now that all of my brothers are gone, Illus’ succession is secured,” the Emperor inclined his head every so slightly, “thanks to you.”
“I live only to serve the Empire,” the killer replied impassively.
“Yes, your loyalty has been noted,” replied Marcus, a sudden chill running through him. “What of the Pagans?”
“Publius Flavius was swept overboard during a storm, my lord.”
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Marcus chuckled, “Yes, I’m sure it was incredibly tragic. And the others?”
“I did not have time to deal with them properly, sire. I had to return at once with news.” Rufus shrugged, “they are of no concern to you though. The ship captain is an acquaintance of mine. He will ensure that once they land in Britannia, there they will remain unless you say otherwise. It is only a matter of time before the Saxons, Celts or simple brigands kill them. Who knows, maybe they will even offend the Romano-British enough and get themselves executed.”
Marcus was taken aback. Lucius Vibius Rufus had never failed before, this was… unusual. “What was so urgent that you could not complete your task?”
“I came at the order of Spurius Flavius, sire,” Rufus began. “He told me to convey to you the urgency of the situation in Gaul. Augusta Treverorum is again besieged by a large Hun army and there are no reinforcements to be sent from all of Gaul. He urges you to assemble a new force to deal with them and to take back Belgica from the Saxons.”
“Huns, Saxons… BAH. I will deal with them in time. Augusta Treverorum is fortified and held by a large garrison, let the barbarians batter themselves to pieces against its walls.” Marcus’ face darkened, “It’s the Sarmatians that will have to be dealt with first.”
Only the week before, he had received the news. The nomadic Sarmatian hordes, wandering aimlessly since their lands had been taken by the Lombardi, had violated the Empire’s borders and laid siege to Salona. Grim news.
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“Perhaps I should send Procopius to deal with them,” he wondered aloud, “he has proved himself capable of defeating Roman armies; he should have no difficulties in slaughtering a mass of barbarian peasants.”
“How wise, sire.”
Marcus detected a mocking undertone to the man’s words, but said nothing. Rufus was dangerous, perhaps too dangerous to keep around any longer. The Emperor shifted uneasily at the thought of being alone with him any longer.
“Servants!” he cried, and a flood of men rushed in. “Bring me some water.”
One of them hurried off to comply.
“Sire,” the killer had not moved, “there is one other thing that Spurius ordered me to tell you. He wishes that you would give up your, pardon the term sire, heretical beliefs in the blasphemies of Nestor and return to the light of salvation.”
Marcus nearly exploded in rage. “HOW… HOW DARE…”
A coughing fit erupted in his chest and he doubled over in pain, clutching at the throne and gasping for breath. The servant sent off for water ran up and helped him drink. The coughing eased a bit.
Rufus stood impassive, “Apologies sire, those are his words, not mine. He ordered me to say them and being but a humble servant of the Empire, I must obey my betters.”
“NEVER… WILL NEVER…”
A fresh wave of coughs nearly threw Marcus completely from his chair. His chest felt like it was being crushed. He tried desperately to inhale. For a moment, a thin trickle of air flowed through him; then all movement stopped.
Augustus Marcus Flavius Felix, Emperor of the Western Roman Empire and the most powerful man in the known world, collapsed on the floor. His eyes bulged sickly out of his head and his fingernails tore gashes in his skin as he clawed at his throat and chest.
The world was hot and distant around him. The confusion engulfed Marcus and he foundered in it. In the periphery of his vision, he was aware of a great commotion going on around him. Men were rushing to and fro. Rufus was pointing and shouting at the servant who had brought him the water.
The light began to dim around him and all sound seemed to be muffled, as if coming from a great distance. The servant was screaming something… something… but the words were lost to him. As the darkness closed in, Marcus felt a hot breath on his cheek and Rufus’ words in his ear.
“Spurius Flavius thanks you for eliminating all who could have opposed him.”
He fell into oblivion.
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Syracuse, Summer 406 AD
Spurius Cipius, Emporer of Rome, knelt down on the hard stone floor of his bed chamber and bowed his head.
“Why me, oh Lord? I am no one. A small landowner from Sicily, how can I lead your Empire? I am not a proud Flavian or a great general. I command no army and have no powerful allies. Why did the Senate pick me? Have we fallen so low, that I am the best they can come up with?”
Spurius closed his eyes with a pained expression. What had happened to Rome? Pulled apart from within, the Western half was now humbled. Barbarians had seized provinces in Gaul and claimed them as their own. Samartian hordes were rampaging through northern Italy. A rebel faction had claimed Africa. Britain had been abandoned to the mercy of fierce Saxon raiders and wild Celts. Communications between Rome and her new conquest, Constantinople were threatened by the loss of Salona. Rome’s finest generals were effectively prisoners of the cities they governed, unable to withdraw their meagre garrisons in order to take to the field for fear of sparking uprisings. Indeed, there were no field armies worthy of the name and no navy of any kind. Provinces were neglected, many having outgrown the infrastructure available and trade was underdeveloped due to the lack of ports and marketplaces.
Spurius’s prayer turned to ritual and then slowly he rose to his feet. It was time for decision. First, he must escape the blockade of Sicily before the Eastern Roman fleet learnt of his coronation. Then he must make his way to Rome. In the meantime, he had to give orders to muster every available soldier to drive out the Samartians. After that he would divide the army. Some he would send to Gaul, to help drive out the barbarians who had usurped Roman rule there. The rest, he would lead east, to Constantinople, to continue the campaign for reunification by crossing the Bosphorus into Asia Minor.
And what of the Flavians? The Senate had insisted on Andragathius Flavius being named Caesar. Well, so be it. Spurius’s own son was too young to be considered and anyway there was something about the boy that was not quite as it should be. With the succession safely theirs, the Flavians might simply bide their time and remain loyal. Spurius knew little of Andragathius. The man had no record of command or any apparent vices and correspondingly few virtues, except his reported piety. Well, what else does one need, but piety? thought Spurius. So, he would give Andragathius command of an expedition to reclaim Africa. The command should keep him out of trouble and anyway, Andragathius should be able to use the great influence of the Flavian clan to persuade the elders of the great city of Carthage to rejoin the Empire. In truth, Rome’s campaigns were increasingly political - about convincing people to stay true to the Empire, rather than primarily military. If the army was restricted to policing the cities, there could be no proper military campaigns.
Spurius reached the door and paused. In the last few minutes, he had just mapped out the course of his entire reign. He now knew what needed to be done. Surely, God moves in mysterious ways.
A battlefield outside Mediolanium, Summer 407 AD
Young Attalus Commodus watched his general making battle plans. Attalus remembered first meeting his general a year ago, in a ramshackle fort outside Massila. He had been horrified at the meagre garrison - a few dozen mercenaries and a gang of peasants. The general himself had been unshaven and battle scarred, still mourning the loss of most of his escort. It was amazing to think that now the general, Romulus Sertorius, was leading a fine full Roman army to battle against the Sarmatians. Where the soldiers had come from, Attalus did not know. It was a tribute to the efficiency of the Imperial Secretariat, headed by Attalus’s father-in-law.
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Romulus Sertorius leads a large army to confront the Sarmatians in North Italy
Romulus looked up at his young military Tribune. “This will be a battle to remember, Attalus.”
Attalus nodded. In truth, he had no idea what to expect - unlike Romulus, he had never fought the Sarmatians before or indeed seen any combat. How would these hordes fight? Romulus had deployed his army in a wide, dispersed formation. Cohorts of legionnaires were placed intermittently across a wide front, backed by loose formations of archers. Evidently, Romulus did not expect a simple, close order battle. Rather his army was deployed like a net designed to catch the elusive Sarmatians.
Attalus followed the glance of his general. Romulus was staring into the wood on their left. Attalus understood. A true Roman did not like to fight in a wood. They fought out in the open, shoulder to shoulder. Woods were for skulking barbarians, for ambushes and war without honour. Romulus shook his head resignedly. No matter, woods or not, they must advance. They had to drive the Sarmatians out of Italy.
“Go to your men, Attalus. It is time.”
Attalus saluted and headed out the tent towards his escort. Already, he could hear the pickets shout out and instinctively, Attalus turned to the wood. He could see them - horsemen, moving out of the shadows. They were moving around the Roman army’s left. Attalus scanned the horizon to this right. Sarmatian horse were moving there too: a double envelopment. This could get nasty, Attalus thought. Romulus had ordered his many archers, protected by scattered cohorts, to skirmish with the Sarmatian horse archers. A unit of foederati spearmen moved to drive off the Sarmatians moving round the Roman left.
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The battle opens with Sarmatian horse archers working their way around the Roman left, while their main force approaches through the woods.
Attalus mounted quickly and motioned to his escort to follow. As a military Tribune, he had responsibility for the Roman horse. Romulus had given him strict instructions. Roman horse was scarce - aside from the generals’ escorts, they were only two units on the field - and could easily be dissipated chasing after the fast skirmishing Sarmatians. It had to be reserved for the decisive point of the battle, after the enemy were committed.
Attalus approached the captain of his troop of Sarmatian auxiliary cavalry, saluting in the proper Roman fashion. These were the most valuable fighters in the army. The days of the heavy infantry were dying and now it was the heavy cavalry that was in the ascendant. Since Rome had few native cavalry, did that mean Rome’s days were numbered? The irony of having to rely on Sarmatians to defeat their countrymen was not lost on Attalus. He spoke to the captain of the auxiliaries: “I need you to do a delicate thing.”
The rugged Sarmatian captain looked impassively at the young Roman Tribune.
“King Aram, you know him?” Attalus continued.
The captain nodded non-commitally - what Sarmatian had not heard of their king, a bear of a man, in his prime at 43?
Attalus said: “I want you to watch for his banner on the field. When he is committed to the battle, I want you to ride your men behind him. And kill him”
The captain thumped his arm across his chest and then raised it in salute. “Aram has made one mistake denying the one true God and another attacking Rome. We will stop him.”
Attalus returned the salute with vigour - the loyalty of Rome’s auxiliaries never ceased to impress him.
The rest of the battle was a confused affair. The Sarmatian foot charged out of the woods and for a time, the dispersed cohorts struggled to contain them. The sole unit of limitanei lost 49 of their number, underlining the fact that such troops belonged in garrisons and not field armies. By contrast, the plumbatari and Samartian auxiliaries proved their worth - one unit of each killing 216 and 281 respectively. The key moment came when most of both armies were engaged and the Sarmatian auxilary cavalry were committed to a charge on the rear of King Aram's escort, running him down.
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The decisive moment of the battle - Sarmatian auxiliaries cut down King Aram.
The final tally from the battle was 1597 Sarmatians killed for the loss of 322 Romans. But more importantly, the loss of Aram and all the royal family left the Sarmatians leaderless and the horde dissolved.
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The battle marks the end of the Sarmatian horde.
Romulus received no reward for his victory. His loyalty was regarded as suspect by the Imperial Secretariat and he was removed from command of a field army, being given instead the governorship of a province in Gaul. Attalus, son-in-law, to the head of the Imperial Secretariat, was seen as more trustworthy and less dangerous, so he was given part of Romulus's army to march to northern Gaul to reinforce the garrisons facing the Huns and Saxons. The remainder of the army began the march east, to Constantinople by way of rebel held Salona.
410 Summer, Salona
Spurius Cipius stifled a yawn. Eugenius Flavius, the Quaester Sacri Palati, was droning on endlessly about the priorities for reconstruction of the city. Salona had been sacked by the Samartians en route to Italy and then occupied by rebellious Illyrians, reluctant to return to Roman rule. Eugenius was stressing the importance of building ports, mines and markets. The city dignatories sat, feigning interest as Eugenius nervously stumbled over his words. They are probably grateful they were treated so leniently after the assault on the city by Eugenius’s men. Well, having to sit through this lecture punishment enough, Spurius thought with a grimace.
When, after what seemed like a lifetime, the meeting ended, Spurius took Eugenius to one side.
“You could not wait for me?” Spurius said, half in jest. “You had to retake the city yourself!”
Eugenius looked earnestly at his Emperor: “The city has suffered too much, your majesty. It would have been a crime to leave it a day longer under such lawlessness and anarchy.”
Spurius nodded, without conviction, so Eugenius took him by the arm.
“But really, does it matter, who does what, so long as God’s will is done? And you know, I did nothing. It was our men who stormed the city. The cohort that reached the walls first slayed over 600 and lost fewer than 20.”
Spurius looked at the hand on his arm and smiled at the man who dared to admonish an Emperor for his vanity: “But Eugenius, you are not without your own bravery, are you not?”
Eugenius pulled his arm away with a gentle self-conscious laugh. “Your majesty, would you join me a prayer of thanksgiving? Not only for Salona, but also for the liberation of Colonia Agrippina from the Huns and for Illus Flavius’s capture of Ancrya from the imposters in the east.”
Spurius smiled wryly. “Yes, but why do I have the feeling that all that was the easy part?”
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Illus Flavius takes the lightly defended city of Ancrya by storm
410 AD Winter, Colonia Agrippina
Attalus sank exhausted onto the couch, his limbs aching. After the city had fallen, he had fought in four consecutive battles, pursuing the horde of Huns that had taken flight. Each battle had been the same. Marching in the dark, through fields wet with dew, towards the torches of the enemy. The Huns, remorseless fighters themselves, had not seemed able to cope with determination of the Roman general, Rufinus Potitus. By attacking at night, Rufinus had managed to surprise the Huns and defeat them piecemeal. The battles with the Huns were not unlike Attalus’s encounter with the Sarmatians outside Mediolanium. However, Rufinus was a more outstanding general than Sertorius. At the final encounter, 900 Romans had met 1660 Huns and killed 1588 barbarians for the loss of only 69 Romans. Still, the fighting had been brutal with the Hun horse archers in particular being lethal and elusive enemies. Now, thankfully, it was over.
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In the battles against the first Hun horde in 410AD, Rufinus Potitus could invariably be found at the decisive point, leading his escort to smash that of the enemy general.
The door flung open and Attalus heard loud footsteps marching into the room. He looked up, to see Rufinus striding in. The vigour of the older man seemed to spark off the walls and so, painfully, Attalus raised himself up.
“Should we go after them, Attalus?” Rufinus asked, intensely, pacing around the room.
“General, the Huns are finished.” and so am I, Attalus thought self-pityingly, rubbing his forehead, trying to focus.
Rufinus siezed on the younger man's words: “Yes, that’s it. We have them now! Four times we have smashed them. One more blow and they will be gone forever.”
Attalus spoke wearily: “What can they do? Their forces are less than half the size of a proper field army.”
Rufinus was now pouring over the map on the table, muttering. “One more blow…”
Slowly, Attalus levered himself off the couch and moved towards the map. The smell of candlewax seemed to have a sobering effect on him.
“If we pursue them, we must leave the city undefended. We will need every man. Every battle has cost us dearly. And this place has not known Roman rule for many years. A small garrison would likely be butchered by the Hun sympathesisers or the Saxons. Even if the whole army stays, I am not sure we can avert a rebellion.”
Rufinus nodded, seemingly unconcerned, as if the loss of the city were a price he was willing to pay to finally eradicate the Huns.
Attalus was wide awake now and animated: “Is that what we have liberated the city for? Just to lose it again? Do we want to leave these women and children at the mercy of every thug or barbarian on the border?”
Rufinus looked at his military Tribune with renewed respect: “Very well, we shall rest. After all, what can the Huns do now that we have killed more than 5500 of their men in one season?”
And so, with relief, Attalus returned to his couch and the Huns were able to slip away.
A year later, Attalus was still relaxed to learn that the Huns were besieging Samarobriva, once a Roman city but since passed into Saxon hands. Taking time to make sure Colonia Aggripina remained loyal, the Romans slowly mustered an army to challenge the Huns. But, en route to Samarobriva, Attalus learnt that the city had fallen. The Huns, who he thought were finished, now had a new powerbase to build from. Replenished, they would be free to horde again once the Romans stormed their new capital. On learning this, it would be some days before Attalus could bring himself to stand before Rufinus Potitus.
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The second Hun horde that materialised in 418 AD after Rufinus seized Samarobriva. Rufinus will again pursue the steppe horsemen, defeating them in five battles until only a skeleton force remains.
420 Summer, west of Ancrya
So, Lord, I am dying. And I die here, in the east, as my army prepares to give battle with that of the false Emperor. Not much of a general, was I, Lord? Never even saw a battle.
Have I served you well, Lord? My hands are clean. I have put no towns to the sword. I have forgiven those who rebelled against Rome. No free man born within our rightful borders has been enslaved. Even the barbarians on our borders, I have left undisturbed.
And you, Lord, have rewarded us well. You delivered Salona to Eugenius Flavius; Ancrya and Ephesus to Illus Flavius; Constantinople and Lepcis Magna to Andragthius Flavius; Colonia Agrippina and Samarobriva to Rufinus Potitus. And, most miraculous of all, you even returned Londinium to the fold, by inspiring Aurelianus Donatus to lead a loyalist rebellion, much as you inspired me to do in Syracuse so long ago.
And so now, Lord, I am ready. There is much still to be done. But I have just been your humble servant. I have no doubt Eugenius was right. It matters not who does what, so long as your will is done. Andragthius will take up the throne as he was promised. By popular acclaim, Rufinus Potitus will be his Caesar. And me, Lord, I just give thanks for what you have given us and pray forgiveness for all my sins.
Spurius Cipius
Augustus, 406-420 AD
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The baggage train was still making its way through Carthage’s western gate. Andragathius Flavius gazed at it absent mindedly.
“Emperor?”
Andragathius blinked and turned to look at the man who was holding the document, awaiting his seal. Whenever he heard that word, he had to resist the urge to kneel.
“How long will this take to get to Massilia?” he asked the clerk.
“Two months, more or less, sire. The Eastern naval forces are too strong for the fleet to take a direct route. They will have to seek the protection of harbors in Sicily and up the Italian peninsula.”
Andragathius nodded and pressed the Imperial signet into the seal. The clerk bowed and walked off towards the docks.
The Emperor of Rome gazed back at the flowing stream of men and materials of war, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Emperor. Augustus. Divine. He was only a man and he knew it. What had he done to distinguish himself above all others? He was a good Christian and had been loyal to the Empire, but other than that he was merely a common man. Emperor Spurius Cipius had given him the benefit of the doubt, had allowed him the opportunity to prove his worth, but Andragathius knew that deep down Augustus Cipius had always thought of him as a “Flavian.” If he was, it was in name only. He bore the nomina and was the great grandson of Emperor Valentinianus, but his branch of the family tree had achieved little. Neither his parents nor his siblings had ever accomplished anything remarkable. They had all predeceased him as well, leaving Andragathius alone, isolated from the Imperial dynasty. Yes, his nomina was Flavius, but he was not a Flavian.
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“And that, Andragathius, is why you will be a good Emperor.” He remembered a Senator saying those words to him when he had been called to Massilia for the ceremony indoctrinating him as heir to the Empire.
Augustus Andragathius Flavius knew there was wisdom in those words. For all the wealth and power that came with the position, the Emperor was simply the foremost servant of the realm. So, he would serve, and he would do his best. He would make up for his own shortcoming and lack of knowledge by utilizing the advice of the Imperial retinue. They were good men who knew how to handle to mechanisms of Roman governance.
“Listen to your advisors and do your best to help Rome,” the Senator had told him. So he had done and so he would continue to do. No sooner had word arrived that Spruius Cipius had died than he had been forced to lead an army into battle. He had waged war before, but he had no particular talent for it. He had listened to his military advisors, as in previous battles, and they had prevailed. They were good men and they knew how to conduct the affairs of war, as well as peace.
He glanced back in the direction of the docks, but the clerk was lost in the sea of people that was Carthage. Such a simple document, but hopefully an important one. He would continue the campaign in Africa, but the rest of the Empire still had to be governed. Spurius Cipius had done much to secure the provinces and to improve the lives of all Romans. Andragathius would continue his holy work. The document laid out the broad objectives of Imperial governance, as agreed upon by the Imperial council, with the details to be handled as the local officials though best.
First, the Slavs had to be dealt with. Their emissaries claimed they were merely travellers with no hostile intentions, but they were no different than the other hordes who had killed countless Romans and ravaged a dozen provinces. Eventually they would turn hostile and have to be confronted. An army had to be assembled to confront them, but that would take time. Anthemius Senecio was ordered to take his newly trained elite cohorts east towards Pannonia, where locally raised forces would join him. In the mean time, assassins would be employed to quietly eliminate the more aggressive Slavic leaders. Andragathius did not like this last method, but he knew that the lives of a few pagan warlords were a small price to pay for saving countless innocent Christians. Hopefully the assassins could stave off war until Senecio was prepared.
Second, the wealth of the Empire would be directed towards the restoration of the Border Legions, which had proved so effective at their prime 300 years ago. The Empire would be divided up into four regions. Each region would have one full strength Legion of Rome’s finest soldiers, supported by the best Auxiliaries, and supplied with the finest weapons and armor. These Legions would in turn support individual border forts that protected all avenues into the Empire. Each border fort would be manned by a single cohort of frontier troops. The forts themselves would not be designed to hold the enemy, but merely to delay them at the choke point long enough for the Legion to arrive and deal with them. In this way, the entire Empire could be guarded at all times. From west to east, Legio I Italica would be responsible for the Gallic territories, Legio II Italica would be responsible for holding the Alpine passes, Legio VI Claudia Pia Fidelis would guard the Pannonian borders, and Legio V Claudia Pia Fidelis would watch the Danube crossings in Moesia. This system would take time to create and it would cost vast sums to implement and support, but it would more than pay for itself in the long run by securing for the Empire. Nevermore would an eastern horde ravage Roman lands.
Third, the foothold in Asia would be secured and expanded. Once stable and prosperous territories were added to Roman rule, the reunification of the Empire would be assured. This would be the most difficult task, with the might of the Eastern armies to contend with.
Finally, Africa would be retaken. Andragathius had been ordered on a campaign to restore the African provinces to Imperial control before Spurius Cipius had died. It was a mission that was to the benefit of the Empire, promising to restore glory to Rome civilization and to secure the Mediterranean for trade fleets. Tingi in particular was of critical importance. The wealth generated from new trade with Africa and shorter sailing routes would greatly benefit every province. Andragathius saw no reason to abandon these plans simply because he was now the supreme ruler; he had ordered the march to continue as planned and would see it through personally. When the west was secured, then he would march back east towards Egypt and open a second front against the false Empire.
The rear guard was now passing through the gates; it was time to go. Augustus Andragathius Flavius walked over to his mount, held by one of the Imperial bodyguards. He nodded to his men and mounted. As the group began to move, the most powerful man in the world prayed in silence.
Manius Ulpius yawned and cracked his knuckles. Legio VI Claudia Pia Fidelis had been marching since dawn. General Senecio had been driving them hard to reach the Pannonian front ever since they had received orders from Massilia.
Ulpius just wanted to sleep.
“God curse all noblemen,” he said to no one in particular. All soldiers complained, but few as much as Ulpius. He glanced behind him and could barely see the glint of sunlight off of the weapons of the first cohort in the column.
“God curse all centurions too.” Mettius Nepius Cotta, centurion of the Third Cohort had overheard him complaining the night before about the marching and had rewarded him with the ‘honor’ of scouting the road ahead of the Legion. The ‘honor’ being that the scout was always the first to die when the enemy was waiting in ambush.
Ulpius winced as his foot slipped and he banged the blister on his big toe against a rock. “God curse all bloody rocks. Was it really necessary to make so many of them? One sun, one moon, two damned people and more rocks than all the whores in Gaul.” He sighed and squinted at the road ahead.
They were not far from the border fort south of Aquincum, maybe 15 minutes or so and he should be able to see it. “I should be able to bloody smell it right now,” he said to the wind. “God curse all unwashed barbarians. What kind of people don’t take baths? Bloody animals, they are.” Ulpius shook his head.
If the rumors were true, the border fort would be seething with them. After crossing the Empire’s border, some of the Slavic lords had begun to die in bizarre accidents.
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The horde had taken this as a sign of ill omen and turned back north, leaving Roman territory. The first of the border forts had been built behind them and garrisoned with local troops. It hadn’t taken long for the Slavs to get their nerve back though, and this time they didn’t ask permission. They had stormed both the forts south of Aquincum simultaneously with rams that they had built elsewhere and taken with them on the march. Refugees said the southern fort had resisted the first assault…
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…but it had been overrun by a second, more determined attack.
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Ulpius didn’t even like to think of what had happened to the garrison of the northern fort.
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A short time later, he crested a small slope and the remains of the fort appeared in the distance. There was little left other than the fortified walls; the gates were destroyed and the interior gutted. The open fields surrounding the fort were strewn with countless fire pits and campsites. It was as if the gates of Hell had opened up and the demons of…
Ulpius blinked. There was no one down there. No one alive, at least. He could see scavengers picking at a few carcasses of man and beast, but nothing else moved. The Slavs were gone.
“Filthy bastards, aren’t they?”
Ulpius spun around and nearly wet himself. A cloaked man was standing not two paces behind him, grinning smugly.
“You scared the damned wits out of me!” Ulpius snarled.
“So sorry,” the man laughed, “I’ve been waiting here for you for hours. Are you from Legio VI?” He took Ulpius’ blank stare as an affirmative. “They’re gone you know.”
“Gone? What do you mean gone? The Slavs?” The man’s grin returned. “All of them? Gone where?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know; wherever Slavs go when there’s no one telling them what to do.” The confusion was apparent on Ulpius’ face. “You see, their king, or whatever they called him, had an accident. There wasn’t anyone left to tell them what to do… so they left.”
Ulpius’ eyes narrowed, “what do you mean he had an accident?”
“Oh, that part is quite simple,” the man grinned, “he accidentally slit his throat on my dagger while he was sleeping.”
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“Burn, damn you!” For a moment, the men near Rufinus Victor almost expected the massive siege tower to burst into flames. Not even fate dared disobey the great General, what chance had a pile of wood?
The tower did not burn though. Two detachments of archers were pouring flaming arrows into it from either side, but the Celts seemed to have covered this one with wet hides. It simply would not catch fire. As Rufinus watched the siege engine, he began to slowly count backwards… 7, 6, 5, 4…
One of his personal guard looked at him quizzically.
…3, 2, 1…
The drawbridge on the siege engine slammed down and a swarm Celts wielding huge two-handed blades stormed onto the city walls. Rufinus sighed. “Now,” he said, casually shaking his head, “this will take all afternoon.”
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They were brave, Rufinus would give them that, but they were barbarians. They outnumbered his men nearly three to one, were attacking the city walls from two directions, and had siege towers and ladders moving towards more sections of wall than he had men to hold them. But they were barbarians, and barbarians were predictable.
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A runner came from the south gate. “Sir, the Captain of the Second Cohort reports that the southern ram has been set alight and that the Plumbatarii are holding strongly.” Rufinus nodded and dismissed him. Both rams and one of the two siege towers had been set alight by his archers.
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He was thankful for that. Had they broken down one of the gates and spilled into the streets, the fight would have lasted into the evening as well. That would have delayed his bath.
Rufinus had been fighting barbarians for decades. He had won countless battles against overwhelming numbers of the enemy. They didn’t die like ordinary men though, they died far easier.
When Andragathius Flavius had become Emperor, Rufinus had been hunting the last of the Huns in Saxon lands, south of Campus Frisii. He had been recalled and sent west to protect Samarobriva from a large Celtic force that had landed nearby. He had been looking forward to that fight, but it never came. Only days before he arrived, the Celts had disappeared. His scouts had scoured the forests for them, suspecting an ambush, but no sign of them was ever found. The Admiral in charge of the channel fleet claimed that no ship had been seen to take the army away, but Rufinus knew well how outmatched Roman ships were in those waters. Half the Celtic homeland could have walked from Britannia to Belgica over a bridge of boats and the Admiral would probably claim that nothing had occurred.
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He had been ordered to remain in Gaul and supervise the organization of Legio I Italica, but that was a job for clerks. The Celts had returned to Britannia, and where barbarians went, Rufinus followed. With nothing more than the occasional Saxon raid to contend with on the Gallic frontier, Rufinus set his men to the construction of a more formidable fleet to secure the waters and transport his army north.
It had taken time, but in the summer of 423 the new Roman fleet had swept the channel clean of barbarian raiders and Rufinus and his men had crossed. They found Londinium besieged by a small force of Celts being led by a chieftan named Ciniod. When Rufinus’ force appeared, the Celts had abandoned their siege engines and fled west. He had caught them a short ways away at a river ford.
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They must have thought themselves clever for defending such a choke point. Too bad they hadn’t noticed a second ford only a short distance to the east. Rufinus had sent half his cohorts across the river there and had crushed them with simultaneous attacks from two directions.
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He had then marched north on his own initiative to take Eburacum. That city had been lost to the Empire generations ago, it was time they started paying their taxes again. Taking the walls had been a simple affair; the usual ladders at midnight trick always caught barbarians off guard.
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Only weeks later, news arrived from Gaul that a small bandit raiding party near Colonia Agrippina had been destroyed by Legio I Italica. Upon closer inspection, it had turned out to be the last “King” of the Huns and a handful of starved vagabonds.
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The garrison had left their corpses for the vultures. It bothered Rufinus not one bit. He knew that barbarians like the Huns were little more than dangerous animals. Cull their numbers and maim them and they will all turn into cowardly scavengers. Yes, they were animals. Rufinus liked hunting animals almost as much as he liked a good bath.
It was then that the phantom Celtic army had reappeared… at the gates of Eburacum. They had brought friends as well. A small group of Foederati had been sent north as reinforcements by Aurelianus Donatus, but they had been caught in the field and massacred. And so the assault had come from west and south.
Rufinus had gambled on his archers and Celtic ignorance. He did not have enough men to defend all threatened points, so he left the gates unguarded and ignored the landing sites of the siege towers. Two cohorts were placed to repel the entire southern attack with the rest dispersed to meet the ladders coming towards the western walls. As a reserve, the two detachments of Sarmatian Cavalry had been placed in the city square, where they could quickly move towards any threat that managed to reach the streets.
Everything had gone as planned, except for that second siege tower. It had disembarked men in an area only held by archers. The Eighth Cohort was nearby, but they were occupied fighting off one of the Celtic ladder groups.
“Runner!” Rufinus bellowed. A lightly armored soldier stepped forward. “Tell the Fifth Cohort to leave the northernmost section of wall and report to the gatehouse immediately!” The man ran off into along the wall.
Rufinus gazed back up at the wall. The archers were fighting bravely, but they were unarmored and their daggers were of little use against the massive blades being thrown against them. In no time at all, two-thirds of them were down. It would be only moments before the last of them broke and the Celts took the tower behind them, giving them access to the streets below.
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Whoever was currently leading the nearby Eighth Cohort saw the threat as well. With a momentary lull in the Celts storming up the ladders to their section of the wall, the men moved as one to take the Celts from behind. They fought desperately to break through the rear of the barbarian infantry, eventually succeeding in drawing off their foes from the remaining archers.
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“Get them off the walls!” Rufinus shouted, gesturing to the archers. “Pull all archer detachments back to the main square, this is no place for them now.” Men rushed to comply as a massive of heavily armored men arrived from the north.
“Sir! Fifth Cohort reporting as ordered sir!”
“Up those walls soldier,” Rufinus commanded, “use the gatehouse stairs and then take them from behind!” Orders were shouted and men began to crowd into the narrow passageway.
Rufinus looked back up at the wall. The Eighth Cohort was finishing off the last of the Celts from the siege tower, but dozens more were coming up the now undefended ladders behind them. The Eighth had save the tower, but only temporarily. There were only about 50 men still standing and it would not take long before the Celtic masses overwhelmed them. The tower on the other side of the wall had already been occupied, but it did not have access to the street and all of its windows faced outwards. It’s loss mattered little to the scope of the battle.
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The first men of the Fifth were now arriving on the wall, but there were easily a hundred Celts between them and the Eighth, with more pouring up the ladders every minute. This would not do.
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“Runner!” Rufinus bellowed again. Another man in light armor appeared. “Bring the cavalry up here immediately!”
The minutes crept by and men died. Only a third of the Eighth was still standing when the Sarmatians reached the western gate. “Sally and sweep them from the ladders.”
The doors of the city creaked open and a hundred heavily armed horsemen poured forth to wreak bloody terror amongst the scaling parties.
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With the enemy scattered and disorganized, the cavalry rode unopposed wherever they went, sowing panic and confusion. The men who had yet to climb broke and ran, while those already on the walls died to the last, their fear making them ineffective against the cohorts. As the last of the fighting in front of the siege tower subsided, Rufinus could see that only two dozen of the men from the Eighth had survived, the wall itself a mass of dead and dying.
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“Steward, get those men down and tend to them. Collect all the belongings of any Celt who fell on that wall or below it and split it amongst them.” Rufinus glanced back at the city. Now that the battle was over, the usual administrative duties would have to be tended to. He hated governance. Perhaps he would send for Attalus Commodus to supervise the city; that man actually seemed to like it. That was a decision for later though. He grabbed a nearby legionary. “Soldier, go tell my steward to heat some water and bring me my tub, the bronze one.”
The man looked at him in astonishment, “I don’t know sir… it’s… it’s…”
Rufinus stared at him, “What is it soldier?”
“It’s still pretty hairy out there… it’s a Celtic city…”
“Celts don’t bathe!”
As the army around him cheered, Rufinus Victor, the greatest general in the Roman Empire, retired for a soak.
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