Re-unification - WRE PBM write-ups thread

[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.

[TinCow]

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

[TinCow]

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.



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.



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.





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.



A massive melee had erupted along the entire length of the armies.



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.



Then Procopius had committed his own reserve to the fight and had outflanked them.



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.



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.




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.



Posthumus had drowned himself in wine, but sleep would not come to him. The next morning Athens fell.




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.




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.






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.



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.



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.



The Greeks and Sicilians had fought on, but it had been hopeless.



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.



“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…”