Re-unification - WRE PBM write-ups thread

[TinCow]

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.



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.

[TinCow]

“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.



“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.



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.

[TinCow]

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.



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.



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.



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.




The fighting at the gatehouse had been particularly brutal, but in the end the rebels had died to a man.




When the cavalry and reserve infantry had flooded the streets, the enemy rout had begun. It was a massacre.



“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.

[TinCow]

“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.



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.



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.




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.



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.



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.



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…”

[TinCow]

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.



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.




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.



The charge that followed had been even more so.



When he saw his infantry rout, Luca had fled the field with all his horse.



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.



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.



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.



Eventually Luca had lost his nerve and fled once again with his cavalry, though this time only a third of it escaped.



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.



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.



“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.

[TinCow]

“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.



“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.”

[TinCow]

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.




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.



Gallus drew up his men in a defensive formation and waited for the inevitable assault.



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.




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.



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.




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.