Re-unification - WRE PBM write-ups thread

[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…”

[TinCow]

“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.”



“Captain Herennius met them in full force, smashed their left flank and annihilated them.”





“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.”





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.”



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.



“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.

[Dutch_guy]

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