Civil War Stories, The Will of the Senate

[SwordsMaster]

The vast estate stretched for miles. Levia sat straight in the saddle, watching the approaching group of riders. One of them wore a senator’s toga, while the others, 5 in total followed, speaking in pairs or trios, as the road allowed. The senator waived closer the man Levia recognised as Callimachus of Cyrene, a known philosopher, that was helping Luca fight his boredom and outbursts of anger with contemplation, rhetoric conversation, and military games, and that was now in the role of a scribe, with a roll of papyrus held over a firm leather support to help him write.

As the group approached, she could hear that Luca suggested getting the roads paved and widened so as to allow two carts or 5 mounts to pass through, while Callimachus suggested improving the water supply to the crops first, so that the land could be irrigated regularly.

“But once we build the roads, my dear Callimachus, will not that make the construction of irrigation easier?” I posed to the philosopher.

“Of course, Luca” he said “But you must think of the money you will spend before you can enjoy the benefits of this work.”

“Will I not be able to travel faster and more comfortably on paved roads than I do in this bog? And will that not make me happier than a few extra jugs of wine I sell?”

At this moment I saw her. Levia was just a few paces down the road, walking the horse ahead of the two Nubian guards. I had been so entangled in the conversation I did not raise my head at the next bend of the road, so we came very close before I noticed we were not alone. Of course the next few words Callimachus said were wasted.

“Make it happen, greek. And hold my horse.” I slid off the animal and walked towards Levia. Despite all the other women, she had always been special. She was the main reason I kept visiting my son in law in Ariminium and my son’s estates in Narbonensis. I could get wine much better than this from my own vineyards at Syracuse, but it is the sheer pleasure I saw on her face that made the journey worth the while.

“Well, it has been a long time, senator, since you last visited. Are those matters of state more important than me?” By Mars, I had missed her.

“The Gods have kept their servant busy. Besides, there were all those other women ahead of you. It is a long way from Rome.” I laughed. She came very close, slapped me, and then hugged me. “Well, maybe you have learned a thing or two from them.” And she kissed me.

I laughed again, and looked back at my retainers. Marcus Valentinius, was looking back, as if he could see something that behind us. “There are two horsemen following” he said.

The Nubians stared at me. I waved them to the sides of the road, and came closer to the side of the horse where my scabbard was. After what had happened in the Senate, that fool, our consul, had tried to get me poisoned twice, and a woman died because of it. My fist clenched in anger. After the dispute on the senate floor, I mean to leave the city immediately and retire from political life, but personal affairs that needed settlement and other issues concerning my position entertained me in Rome for longer than expected, and I heard news of the assassination by the consul. In the Senatorial building! No wonder the Gods do not smile upon the republic! Has he forgotten who put him in the senate in the first place? Has he forgotten whose money he is spending so lavishly?

A messenger from the Senate Speaker reached me the night before I was due to leave requesting me to attend an emergency session. I had my doubts, but attended anyway. I watched in silence the best of Rome: white togas, tanned skin, white hair, in the ghostly light of the torches, with the night outside – such was the fear of the Consular repression, that the Senate had assembled before dawn – all assembled to vote on the impeachment of the Consul, and his prosecution for treason.

Several voices had declared themselves supporters of the Consul, and I heard later that 4 of them had been assassinated that night, with the rest able to leave the city and taking the grim news with them. The motion had passed. Relief was notable, and the Senate Speaker was tasked with delivering the news to the Consul, who was campaigning in Iberia, with complete disregard for the voting procedure.

I could not stay in the city any longer, and the matter seemed closed, so I left.

…Levia was talking to me. I stared at her, still lost in the contemplation of past events, for a few more moments, before I could understand what she was saying.

“Senator, this man is an envoy from the Senate” she repeated. I breathed out, closed my eyes, opened again, and the world was in focus once more.

The priest, Servius, leaned closer from his mount “Sir, Mars will give you strength. Maybe we should take this matter somewhere more private.”

“Servius, this is no matter for you, I said, but I will take the message from the Republic.”

The messenger gave me the papyrus roll, intricately bound and stamped. “Will there be a reply, sir?” he inquired.

“I cannot know until I read it, can I?” I was growing irritated. “You will get my reply tomorrow.”





That night was a sleepless one. Levia was long asleep, but I was in my working room, with the models of the ballistae, walls, and other military and civilian buildings, among them an unfinished water mill I was considering installing in Syracuse. They had been built by Valentinius, Callimachus and myself during the days of bad weather of which there had been surprisingly many. The table was covered in papers. Mostly there were accounts, but also plans, tax returns, and I knew somewhere there was also a translation of Alexander’s campaigns I have been meaning to read for almost a year now, and kept carrying with me everywhere I went.

At the top of the pile the senatorial message. Civil war had broken out. Senators and armies were taking sides. And the Senate wished to know if I was with them or against them. In fact, as far as I remembered, I was the closest commander to Rome, and if I could seize the city, whichever part I aligned with would be almost half way closer to winning the war.

I paced the room again, and again. “Wine!” I shouted into the darkness, and a minute later an arm pushed a cup into my hand. I put it on the table, and sat, with my head between my hands, applying pressure to my temples to silence the voices.

The dancing light of the torches and oil lamps reflected in the gold and the stones of the cup, and made the red wine look like blood and smoke. I felt the old forgotten feeling rising. It was the same feeling you had when you stood under enemy fire, and the arrows obscured the sky, and you had to stand tall, shield up and take it, and despite everything there was nothing you could do until the arrow fell. And life could last just as long as it took the arrow to come down, but never shorter, and you wished the damn shaft would fall already so you could live or die, but get out of that suspended, expectant state.

10 years of military service. 10 years! Since I was tribune at 25, the most promising officer of my generation, until I wasted my youth and my life in bleak governorships, mistresses, temples and races. I was sorry for myself. I was so far beyond redemption it was pointless to even pretend I was the man I used to be, and the man I had hoped I’d be.

The opportunity was mine for the taking. I could lose myself completely, seize Rome, rule in my own name, not in the name of the Senate – too weak to withstand one man’s ambitions - or the Consul – a man I would kill if I saw in the street -.

I fell asleep.

Two strong arms were shaking me. “Master! Master! You must wake up! Fire!” I opened my eyes, and there was a nubian shaking me, and Callimachus holding the door.

“Quickly, leave the building! We will all burn!” I ran, followed by my retainers, through the corridors and patios, with the smell of burnt wood and oils in the air, and the smell of something else. I had smelt that before. It was burned flesh. I turned back. “Where is Levia?” “Where?” Callimachus and the Nubian pushed me out to the street, where all the inhabitants were gathering. “Levia!” I shouted over and over, with no answer.

I sank on to the paved courtyard. She was asleep on my bed which is where the fire started.

A group of Nubians approached, dragging a man in a slave’s tunic. “Sir! We caught him trying to escape through the servants’ quarters! This is the man who started the fire!”

I think I went white with rage, because the Nubians stepped back. I came close to this man. He smelled of cheap wine, and oil, and smoke. “Who do you work for?” I asked in a low voice. I was mad with rage, so mad, it made me lucid, and calm, with everything boiling in the inside, capable of anything.

The man was mute. “Torch!” I turned to the nearest man. It was Valentinius. I didn’t look at him. I stared at the man the Nubians held. “Torch, sir”. I turned around to take it.

I looked at my arm and then slowly moved the torch closer and closer, until the hairs burnt, and the skin began to break, and the smell of my own burnt flesh was in the air. I held it for a few interminable seconds. I didn’t feel the pain. I stared at the man who could not take his eyes from my burnt forearm, and the torch, and the wound that was becoming bigger. Finally I dropped the torch and then held my arm close to the man’s face. “If I do this to myself.” I paused “Imagine what I will do to you.” I said in the same low voice. The Nubians holding him were afraid, I knew it. The man opened his mouth. “It was Servius Aemilius” he mumbled.

I turned to my servants. “A horse, armour.” “Oil for my arm” “Callimachus, give the order to assemble my men.” One of the Nubians asked “Sir, what do we do with him?” I looked at the man. “Burn him.”


Callimachus was startled. “Where are we going, sir?”
The die was cast. The Gods had pushed my in one direction only. I would stand with the Senate and against the Consul.
“Rome.”





Next morning was grim. I was lost in my thoughts and my misery, and forgot to set up camp, and rest, and the soldiers were not happy. Towards noon, after having marched for hours, Callimachus suggested a stop. I assembled the centurions and ordered to rest.

The next stop would be Ariminium, where my son-in-law, Appius Egnatius was governor. I set off to walk around the camp. I could not sit still. Activity was the only drug that kept me from thinking.

A few hours later, Valentinius found me sitting beside one of the camp fires. He sat beside me. “I have news” he said. “Bad news.”

I looked at my friend. “There seem to be plenty of those.”

“Egnatius has locked the city. He received envoys from the Consul and now will support him. I don’t know if…”

“Enough” I interrupted. We must beat him to Rome.

“Muster all my cavalry. We will go ahead of the infantry and try to hold the mountain and river passes until the main army can reach Ariminium and lay siege to it. Recruit mercenaries to bolster my force if necessary.”

He nodded.

“Tell the centurions to pack. We are leaving immediately.” He nodded again.

“By the way, there is no fleet nearby that could take us to Rome, is there?”

“I’ll find out” he said. Then he turned and walked into the darkness.

[GeneralHankerchief]

Outside of Lepcis Magna

...was it really, though? The climate was more temperate, there was no smell of the sea, and the buildings were marble. Nothing like the Carthaginian-influenced architecture of Lepcis Magna. So where was Marcellus Aemilius? Where was he, anyway?

And then he saw the Senate Building, and realized that he was in Roma. Beautiful, glorious Roma. But something was wrong. The Senate Building, in all its majesty... was burning. Chaos. Anarchy. Pandemonium.

Marcellus was about to alert the Vigiles when he spied a large bucket of water near his feet. The Vigiles would take too much time. It was up to him to put out this fire consuming the heart of the Republic. Marcellus picked up the bucket and rushed up the stairs, and into the building.

...the entire interior of the building was in flames. The various statues of the Gods, the Speaker's platform, the Upper and Lower Chambers - all were being consumed. These flames were the largest and brightest he had ever seen, and they would leave no survivors in their path. Nevertheless, Marcellus was determined to put it out. He raised the bucket to splash the water onto something, anything, but the bucket had shrank to the size of a goblet. At that very instant the statue of Jupiter Optimus Maximus crashed to the ground. The flames crackled in triumph.

Marcellus turned and was about to run, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. There was a corpse lying on the floor. Its blood had stained the ground around it. The eyes looked up, glazed, at the ceiling of the building, which looked like it would come crashing down any minute. It was Marcellus' brother, Oppius.

Gasping, Marcellus wheeled around and saw more bodies. His other brother, Manius the Mad. His wife, Magna. His two children, Julianus and Augustus. His father, Lucius, and his mother. All had blood around them, and all were looking up at the weakening ceiling.

Suppressing the urge to vomit, Marcellus began to run as fast as he could, but after three steps he tripped, crashing onto the marble floor. He looked around to see what broke his run, and saw with alarm that it was the corpse of the Senate Speaker. The old man's left arm was straight, clearly pointing in another direction in the building. Ignoring the flames, Marcellus made his way to that direction. What he saw was a graveyard with no burials.

His colleague and sometimes rival, Numerius Aureolus, was dead. Bloody and glazed eyes, just like the rest of them. Next to him was the legendary Tiberius Coruncanius. Dead. Galerius Vatinius and Decius Laevinius. Dead. Cnaeus Caprarius, dead along with the clerk that he had killed in frustration. Appius Bartabus, Valerius Paullus, Luca Mamilius, and Secundus Salvidenius. All dead. Titus Vatinus and Publius Laevinius, two of the lesser "Founding Fathers" of the current period of expansion. Dead.

There were more. Marcellus saw the bodies of Gaius Rutulius and Marcus Laevinius, two long-departed senators, in the Corpse Room as well. Cornelius Saturnius, who had recently been lost at sea, was still lying dead here among the rest of them. He saw Amulius Coruncanius and Publius Pansa. Dead. He saw the corpse of Vibius Pleminius, all battle-lust vanished from his face, that same blank expression that comes with death in its place. He saw the body of Augustus Verginius, his friend and somewhat mentor. The legendary Quintus was nearby, also dead. He saw the Founder of the Republic, Lucius Brutus, lying there too, dead. Much like the Speaker, he was also pointing.

In a state of shock, Marcellus followed Lucius' path, and came upon the body of Romulus himself. He was dead like the rest of them, burning along with the city he founded. All was lost.

"Looks like you're next," came a voice from the shadows. Out stepped the generals on the side of the Consul, looking very much alive and angry, decked in full battle armor. Manius Coruncanius leered. Quintus Naevius snarled. Flavius Pacuvius made a threatening motion with his gladius.

Out stepped Servius Aemilius, carrying a burning torch. He was decked in robes of crimson and had an unmistakable crown on his head.

"The time has come, Marcellus," he said. "Do you swear fealty to your Emperor?"

Emperor. Senate burning. Roma falling into ruin. Jupiter already fallen. Apocalypse.

Marcellus awoke with a start, sweating. He was in a tent outside of Lepcis Magna. He had a full-size Consular Army at his command. The city (Lepcis Magna, that is) was about to fall.

Blinking, he realized that it was all a dream. A vision of things to come, perhaps, but still a dream. Marcellus found his Tribune, Augustus Porcius (loyal to the Senate, as Jack would indicate 2,256 years later). He said nothing of the disturbing dream.

"Augustus," he said, "we are in the wrong place. Prepare to lift the siege, and contact Admiral Appius. This army is needed elsewhere."

[econ21]

The Eternal City

Jack loved Professor Muscatelli. Quite why a tall, handsome 25 year old research student pumped full of testosterone would love a short, balding, overweight middle-aged man was not something Jack wanted to delve into. But how could you not love a man who gave you assignments like this:

"Summarise the dispositions of the rival forces in the Roman Civil War at the end of Summer 250. Pay special attention to the battle of Ancrya."

Ok, thought Jack, let's look at my notes:

Right, Servius, let's start with him - the main man. He was ... on a fleet, sailing to Rome. Wow, he got quite far. Should make landfall in a season or two. And he's got Quintus Naevus heading to Rome via Massilia. Why didn't he march with Naevus? Well, no one could ever figure him out during his time, so what chance do I have? And poor Quintus Libo - he's stuck out in the wilds of Gaul, being hounded by Iberians. Um, he left his ford position - may not have been wise, with those strong Iberian armies around, but I guess there was no point trying to bleed the Iberians to death while Rome burned.

And the Senate forces in Greece and Thrace. Pah. They'd scarcely moved. Slowed down by hiring a few pathetic mercenaries. What a bunch of losers. Except that Decius Laevinus - the guy had a mind as sharp as a steel razor. Woefully under-appreciated by his peers. He nipped across the sea from Apollonia and frantically started trying to create an army to oppose Servius. That old bruiser, Luca Mamillus, he was doing the same in north Italy. Wait up - who's he roped in with him? What! Publius Laevinus! Crumbs, that's a name from the past. I thought he was dead by then or something? And what were they calling their hordes of Gallic mercenaries? "The Third Field Army"?!? Get out of here! Servius's veterans would carve them up like a hot knife through butter. Publius would have known that better than anyone. I guess the guy had a black sense of humour.

Umm, mustn't forget to report on Lucius Aemilius - his Second Field Army had just got ripped apart from within. Gnaius Hordeonius tried to break off those units with commanders loyal to the Consul. By the time the mutiny was over, Lucius had lost all his principes and two strong spear units. Ouch, that's gotta hurt. A few cowards refused to side with either the Consul or the Senate, so Lucius left them at Sarmisegetusa. All of them probably ended up getting squished by the Thracians. That's what happens when you stand in the middle of the road - you get run over. What happened to Gnaius? Lucius didn't want him executed, as the Senate were still trying to sweet talk his father, Titus Vatinus, into declaring for them. Well, that did not work out so well for them, did it? Anyway, let's see - Gnaius. Oh yes, Lucius left him imprisoned in Sarmisegetusa. Poor guy. I bet the Thracians had some fun with him when they overran the place.

OK, I think that's Europe covered. What about Afrika? Oppius Aemilius is sailing towards Carthage. Flavius Paucuvius is marching closeby - probably looking for some support facing down Marcellus Aemilius. But what's this? Flavius has gathered a bucket load of top class mercenaries - including elephants! His army numbers over 1700. Reckon he doesn't need Oppius's support now. So what's Marcellus up to? He's boarded his army on a fleet and is just off Carthage. What's his game? Is he going to land and take on Flavius? Or is he going to race Oppius for Italy? Well that's not exactly a hard choice - unless the dude liked being defecated on by pachyderms!

And so to Ancrya. That's why I love the old Prof. He really gets the blood and the gore. "Give me a battle report!" he likes to bellow. Umm, ok, but not yet. No, right now, he only wants to know the pre-battle numbers. So, what have we got? Numerius the Victor versus Manius the Victor. Not exactly a modest bunch, were they? Couldn't have happened to a better group of guys, I think. I mean, that Numerius - some reckon he was a great Republican, trying to stave off the rise of Empire. I hate him. He smashed the Republic. He could have waited one season. One lousy season and then Servius would have stepped down, and the Republic could have gone on from the great things Servius did for it. But no, that self-important jerk had to push it, didn't he? He had to push Servius in a corner - impeach him, when that fails, well, why not try it again? And then what? Demand he be dragged back to the Senate a prisoner by some lard-ass Senate bureaucrat. Yeah, right, like Servius would have agreed to that. I hate Numerius: he broke the Republic for nothing.

Anyway, enough of my love for ol' bushy eyebrows Numerius. No, actually, that's not enough. Why did he do it? Manius was coming for him. Why did Numerius turn around and go right back at Manius? He had no advantage in numbers or quality of men. Giving battle when you have no advantage was a big no-no in the ancient world. Real generals maneouvred for days to get the slightest edge. But not Numerius, no. He took the same subtle approach he used to smash the Republic. Bull in the proverbial China shop.

But why? I know him. That was not who he was. He might pretend to be the new "Alexander" but I've read his letters. He was a chicken - had no more confidence in his ability or that of his men than the Professor does with hot female grad students. Where's that letter he wrote to Marcellus Aemillus? There it is - he says it, right there. He wanted to skedaddle. Run right for Rome and blow "honour". All he cared about was Rome and Servius. He had no beef with Manius. So why didn't he run? He could have made it. He had a headstart on Manius. Was it because Titus Vatinus and Manius the Mad were blockading the straits? No, they could not have stopped Legio V, not after it had recruited all those mercenaries. Was it because he did not want to surrender the east to Servius? No, he did not care a damn for the east. He only cared for Rome. So why?

Hmm. Let's see - who's this? "Appius Barbatus"? I'm sure I heard that name before. Right - Numerius's ex-Tribune. Took over Legio V while Numerius went off the radar for a few years. Now, where did Appius come from? Whoa, he came from far to the east. Ah, I get it. Numerius could outrun Manius but Appius could not. So Numerius joined forces with his ex-Tribune and forced a showdown. Dumb, man, dumb. Who would have cared if Appius got squished? He was not important, Numerius - you said it yourself. Only Rome and Servius mattered. You knew that. Just like you knew you could have let Servius finish his term in office. You knew it and you blew it anyway. And that's why I hate you, you self-righteous prat.


The battle location and Numerius's Legio V:



Reinforced by Appius Barbatus:



Ranged against Manius's Legio II:



Reinforced by his adopted son, Placus Calvinus:

[flyd]

"You call that a river?"

The soldier was visibly embarrased.

"That's a creek, at most. The water can't be more than ankle deep. Why are you still on this side?"

"But sir... the gully, it's... too steep, for.. for the horses. They couldn't cross."

"We're not leaving without the cavalry. How long will it take to rebuild the bridge?"

"Four hours, maybe."

"You don't have four hours, you have one hour."

"But, that's impossible."

"Do you want to be known as the man who destroyed the Republic? Servius is on his way to Rome, and we have to stop him. I can defeat him, but I have to get there first, and if I don't, it will be your fault. You will be remembered as the man who destroyed the Republic, and also the worst engineer in history. The man who couldn't build a small bridge even when the Republic depended on it. I'm sure Servius will appreciate your incompetence, you might even get a road named after you or something. Although I'm sure it would be a poorly built and ill-maintained road. Why are you still here? Go! Build!"

The engineer ran off. Tiberius was approached by one of the senior centurions, who asked

"Is Ammianus back yet?"

"No, not yet. Tell me, how is it again that there is a civil war on, Servius is marching on Rome, and we're here, stuck in the middle of Pannonia?"

"Well, sir, I didn't want to bring this up in front of the men, but there have been strange things happening lately. I mean, every single bridge we came across had been sabotaged, and in every forest we crossed there were brigands, and the Thracian army is always one step ahead of us, we've had to march south far more than we managed to march west. It's like everyone knows where we're going to go. Do you think we might be cursed?"

Tiberius laughed. "Oh, we're not cursed. Servius is cursed, or he ought to be. It's a lot simpler than that, we have a traitor in our ranks."

"A traitor? Who is it?"

"I have some theories, and I suspect we'll find out soon enough. By the way, there is no Thracian army, those reports have been false."

"That's impossible. Tribune Ammianus has personally led most of the scouting parties."

"Indeed he has. We shall not discuss this further right now," said Tiberius as he rode forward to meet Tribune Kaeso Ammianus, who was arriving at that very moment. "Anything?"

"No," answered Ammianus, "we rode about 12 miles down the river, but there wasn't a suitable crossing. Looks like we'll get delayed again."

"Yes, again. Strange, isn't it? It once took me a week to cross the mountains of Eprius, all the way from Apollonia to attack the Macedonians at Pella, and here it's taking me three times as long to cross a shorter stretch of Pannonia, which, as you may have noticed, is rather flat and without many obstacles."

"Yes, you must be getting old," Ammianus smirked.

"Oh well, at least we won't have to deal with those Thracian horsemen on the other side for a few more hours."

"Sir?" The centurion interrupted, "those look like our Thracian scouts."

"Oh, look, they do," said Tiberius sarcastically. "I must be getting old. I completely forgot that I had sent the Thracians to scout the river before I sent the Tribune and his scouts. Funny how they seem to have found a way across, isn't it?"

The three men sat upon their horses in silence for a moment. As the centurion reached for his sword, Ammianus bolted away, exiting the camp at full gallop. The centurion moved to chase after him.

"Hold it! Hold it!" yelled Tiberius. "We don't have time for this, we have to keep moving. Get the army ready to go. We have a war to fight."

[SwordsMaster]

Luca Mamilius



Bononia was within reach. The life in the saddle felt good. The physical exhaustion made me sleep black dreamless nights, and the army exertions kept my head occupied.

That is, until very recently. After the attempted deal with the pirates failed - the Gods seemed to prefer the land route to Rome – the journey has been fairly regular. The deep forests, the green plains and pastures, and the farms of the gallic and Italian farmers. We even managed to recruit some of them to support our cause. The poor fools wished to see Rome. It was some kind of comical seeing them strap their old man’s spear and shield and fall into the mob that was following me instead of an army.
Little did they know, that in any kind of battle with any number of Servius’ veterans 10 of them would die for each roman Servius brought.

In any case, it was better than nothing, and hopefully after we took Bononia there would be true romans willing to shed their blood for the Republic.

Callimachus approached. “Luca, this letter was left in my tent this morning.” He was holding the letter in his outstretched hand. “It is addressed to you, so take it! I’m bad enough on a horse! I need both hands!” I took the letter. It only had one line in it “Servius is in Rome. Alone.” It was not signed. My heart raced. All my newly acquired tranquillity vanished in a moment. Servius. In Rome! Alone! What were the Gods playing with me? Was this a dream?

“Callimachus, am I dreaming?” I was staring at the letter. Finally I showed it to him. “I believe you are not.” He said. “Why would you dream with me?” the bugger was laughing. “Is this not your wife’s writing?” he added after a short pause during which I couldn’t help smiling. He was right though. It did seem very similar to my wife’s writing. That was very odd. My wife had never been interested in politics, and why would she not write a proper letter instead of the cryptic note I just received?

As if I wasn’t hasty enough, this was another reason to get back to Rome as quickly as possible. “What is going on in Rome, Callimachus?”

“Well, Rome, trapped between your ‘army’ and that of Decius Laevinus, has declared itself for the Republic, so your wife should be safe…” I interrupted. “Any other news?”

“Well, apparently the dominance in the East is to be decided at the battle of Ancyra, where two full sized consular armies with allies and auxiliaries were gathering. With the famous Manius and Numerius Aureolus in command, it should be quite the battle…” Now he was just trying to cheer me up, and kept blabbering about the forces on each side, and where they had served, and how many prisoners would be reasonable to take.

“What about Afrika?” I interrupted again. “Well, in Africa Senator Marcellus Aemilius has lifter the siege of Lepcis Magna and is marching towards the sea to board the fleet that will take him to Italy.” I moved my head with disapproval. From the strategic point of view, he should have taken the city. The man had the only strong army in the whole of Afrika, he should have secured as many settlements as possible there, and establish an economic cushion for Rome. The war needs money. And even when the war is over, more money will be needed to rebuild, then for the war with Iberia which has already been started… Besides the Iberians might just take this chance and bring war into the undefended roman Gaul.

In any case, Marcellus supported the Consul and was also racing to Rome. I was considering bypassing Bononia to be in Rome as soon as possible, or splitting my force, so that progress could be made towards the capital. I was hoping that more local farmers could be convinced to take up the sword.

Callimachus was still speaking. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening.” I smiled. “What is it?”


“I was just saying that this morning, our quartermaster bought a cart of sweet Thracian wine from a local merchant. I thought that might cheer you up.” He said with fake annoyance.

I chuckled. “Sure, greek. Now tell me. What would Alexander do?”

[Mount Suribachi]

Before he even arrived in the city, the messenger knew that something was wrong. He had been sent by the Consul Servius Aemilius with a message for his uncle, Oppius Aemilius. The messenger knew not the details of the message, but from hanging around the command tent whilst it was being written it seemed Servius wanted Oppius to remain in and secure Afrika, tying down Senatorial forces at the same time.

There were no Roman sentries posted on the approach to Icosium, no soldiers guarding the gate. In fact, as he rode into the city he quickly became aware that there was no visible presence of Roman Authority whatsoever. When he asked the locals for the Roman governor, they merely looked at him with faint amusement. When he asked who was in charge, he was told the mayor was ruling the city in the name of Rome.

Eventually the Mayor was tracked down. He had been left with a cohort of Numidian Auxilia and told to hold the city and stay loyal to the legally elected Consul of Rome, Servius Aemilius. It was clear to the messenger that this local mayor would do so -until a better offer came in of course, with the kind of wretched opportunism that these filthy sand dwellers are so infamous for, he thought.

"But where is Oppius Aemilius? I have urgent orders from the Consul regarding his movements in Afrika!"

The wizened old mayor grinned a toothless grin.

"Unfortunately you are too late. He set sail with his legion for Rome last week."

**************************************************

Oppius leaned over the side of the ship and threw up - again. He wanted to die. Barely 2 weeks at sea, slowing sailing eastwards off the coast of Afrika, it was clear his constitution wasn't up to the maritime life. He doubted he would survive the voyage. His light ships weren't really built for Ocean going, and slow as he was already moving, he was moving cautiously, always scouting ahead for the Senatorial fleet. He knew his Aphracts wouldn't stand a chance against the heavier and more numerous 4-deckers available to Marcellus Aemilius at the eastern end of Afrika.

Just before he had set sail he had received intelligence that Marcellus was to the east of Carthage. Just over a season away from Rome - that was where Oppius assumed he was heading. Everyone was in a mad, headlong dash for the Eternal City. The last he had heard before he had set sail was that Servius was in Cisalpine Gaul, marching overland to the capital. He wondered how long that would take.

Oppius sighed. The captains of his fleet had told him that he was still over 2 seasons away from Rome. And between he and there was possibly a larger, more powerful enemy fleet led by his big brother. He chewed his lip. Damn being at sea and being out of the loop! All his decisions had to be based on information days, weeks, even months old. And in the meantime no new orders, only vague guidelines from his nephew several weeks ago to head for Rome.

There was nothing for it. He couldn't take the chance. He would have to head north, going to Rome the long way round. Slip through the gap between Corsica and Sardinia and make a short, quick dash for Rome from there.

He wondered what the situation would be when he finally arrived.

[econ21]

Ancrya, Summer 250 BC

Numerius looked at the two battle lines deployed outside Ancrya, blades and armour glinting in the sun. This was probably the largest battle the world had seen since the time of Alexander. The full might of Rome in the east – the equivalent of over three Consular sized armies – was about to go into battle. But this force would not be used to topple Ptolemy or Seleucia. It would be used against itself, in an orgy of self-destruction.

Isidor approach Numerius gingerly. “You wanted me to send a letter to Manius?”

Numerius nodded, distractedly. What to say? What was there to say? His heart longed to say: let us forget this! Why should we fight, when we are brothers in arms? Why should good Romans kill other Romans? And why should the many subject people who have rallied to our flags die for a faraway city of which they know little? To hell with politics, with ambition and with feuding! Let us march east, together. Together, with the forces we command, we could reach Alexandria and Seleucia – creating a greater Roman Republic that exceeded even Alexander’s Empire!

But how could he say that? To say that would be to abandon the Senate, whose cause he had championed. He could not walk away from a fight he had started. The shame would be unbearable. And he could not abandon Rome to Servius, a man who he had long watched with horrified fascination. There was only an even chance that he would triumph today, but even that would be better than the certainty of dishonour and impotence.

He toyed with making a watered down version of his original proposal: let Appius Barbatus and Manius’s son quit the field with their forces. Let them they swear to remain neutral and to guard Rome’s eastern frontier. Already a Seleucid army was besieging a Roman border fort. Numerius feared that this army would be the first of an avalanche of invaders. But how could Numerius ask this of Appius? If Numerius himself could not abide the thought of abandoning his cause, how could he ask Appius to do so? It would be an abuse of his authority, and one that Appius would in all likelihood refuse to abide.

Isidor prompted him: “Sir, what should the letter say?”

Numerius shook his head. “Isidor, you are better with words than I. You draft something. Express my profound regret that it has come to this. Say I hope we will meet as friends again when this affair has blown over. Swear that we will look after any prisoners or wounded from today’s battle. Ask him to try to protect the life of Appius, as I will protect that of his son…”

Numerius’s voice trailed off. It was just words. There really was nothing to say.

Isidor looked down, awkwardly. Numerius smiled bitterly. This was not how a great leader was supposed to behave on the day of battle. He looked at the dejected figure of Isidor and said encouragingly, his voice rising in strength:

”Very well: send this message."

To Manius Coruncanius,

You sought to bring me to battle. I have obliged. I march under the banner of the Republic and its Constitution. We have both sworn to defend the Roman Republic. Rome is not a mere city. It is an ideal. It is a place where all men can achieve greatness if they act with dignity and honour. It is a metropolis of tens of thousands who live together in harmony thanks to laws and order. And it is the mightiest nation on earth, whose power should not be abused.

Why do you fight? You fight for a man without dignity or honour, who dissembles and debases the Senate, the Constitution and Rome herself. A man who starts illegal wars to frustrate his domestic political rivals and who tricks great generals into the wilderness in order to see them undone. Why? Why do you fight for such a man? Because he is your friend? Oh, Manius – do you not see, such a man can have no friends; needs no friends. He has only servants and needs only tools of his will.

Manius, you feel compelled to choose between betraying your ideals and your “friend”. Do you not see, a man who betrays his ideals is not worthy of being anyone’s friend? At best, he can only be an accomplice, if he is a man at all.

Manius, you have lost your way. I pity you. Prepare to defend yourself.

Numerius

[TinCow]

The Centurion was confused. Cnaeus Caprarius was growing impatient with his obtuse nature. Perhaps it was time to find a more politically adept assistant.

“The men need more provisions for the march, we cannot move on until we have sufficient supplies for a lengthy campaign.

Incomprehension washed across the man’s face. “But, sir, we have enough supplies for a month, and Italy is rich with farmland and grain stores. What more do we need.”

Cnaeus sighed. “Do you wish us to be the first army to reach Rome?”

The man grinned like a fool. “Of course, sir! It would be a great honor to defend the eternal city against the Servians!”

“Honor? HONOR?!” Cnaeus slammed his fist onto the map table, the Centurion and the nearby guards shuffled uneasily. “Do you have any idea what being first into Rome means?”

The Centurion moved as if to speak, then apparently thought otherwise and closed his mouth.

Cnaeus snorted. “At least you are learning. Let me educate you a bit more. Being first into Rome means being the first target of Servius’ Iberian legions. Being first into Rome means being ushered into the afterlife with rather more haste than I would like.”

A battle waged in the soldier’s mind. His wisdom was visibly assaulted by his stupidity. It seemed for a moment that the valiant defense would succeed, but a flanking maneuver by a cohort of idiots tipped the scales. “But if we do not go, Servius will take Rome, and from there all of Italy!”

“HE WILL TAKE ITALY ANYWAY! Servius has at his disposal several legions of veterans. We have mercenaries and vagabonds! If we go to Rome without support, we go to our deaths. The key is not winning the first battle, it is winning the last battle. I do not doubt that Numerius Aureolus will be victorious, but I cannot benefit from that victory if I am not alive.”

Wisdom rallied in a protected glade. Stupidity assailed the lines again, but was repulsed. The Centurion remained silent.

Cnaeus glared at him, then looked down at the map. “We do not have sufficient supplies to continue the march. We must slow our pace and gather more food, even if it takes months. Do you understand?” Cnaeus did not look up to see the answer. “Dismissed.”

-

Such fools. These men were acting as if there was an actual war going on. War involved taking foreign lands, raping foreign women, and seizing foreign wealth. No, this was different. This was an argument about who would get to do more warring than the others. This was politics.

Numerius would win. Numerius had better win. That stunt with the clerk had been designed to force the Senate’s hand, but the bastards had balked. Even after the second vote, half of the bloody Senate had joined the Servians. Men who had voted to impeach had then turned their backs on the Numerians. What kind of game were they playing at? Now the result was uncertain. Well, uncertain in some thing. One thing was known, if Servius won, Cnaeus would not have long to live. So, risks would now have to be taken, battles would have to be fought, and the dice would have to roll. But the dice would be weighted in favor of Cnaeus, that he would be sure of.

Numerius would win and Cnaeus would be instrumental in that victory. The rewards for trusted and loyal generals would be great, but some would be greater than others. Cnaeus knew that Tiberius Coruncanius and Lucius Aemilius would be foremost under Numerius. There was no way to challenge them, but they were old men. They would be removed from the race by time and the Gods. No, the real competitors were the younger men.

Lucius was a great man, but not great enough to rehabilitate the Aemilii name after the fighting. Marcellus Aemilius would be thanked and brushed aside. If Servius fell, Rome would seek to forget the Aemilii family. Marcellus would barred from power by silent consensus. Yet there were others who were not so tainted. Others who possessed armies and political ambitions of their own. Luca Mamilius, Appius Barbatus, and Secundus Salvidienus. Any of them could take the honor of being foremost of the Numerian supporters. Like Cnaeus though, they could only receive them if they survived.

Yes, he would delay. Let the trio of eager fools charge into battle and get themselves killed. The longer Cnaeus waited, the smaller the pool of competitors. Then, when the moment was right, he would make his play and grasp the laurel wreath for himself. If any of the others survived to contest the position as Numerius’ second…

Well, there was sure to be chaos in the aftermath of the fighting. Who knew what kind of unfortunate accidents could befall unwary Senators at such a time?

Cnaeus grinned.

[Tamur]

Appius looked out over the plain. Night fires had just begun to burn in the distance, lighting up the darkening sky with their number. He had come out of his tent to survey the night’s fortifications before addressing his officers, but had stopped at the sight of the enemy’s camp.

The guard named Hortensius stood at his left shoulder, and other milled about finishing the guard tower to their right. Appius nodded in the direction of the fires. “Looks like they’re helping us out by roasting all their pigs for us to eat tomorrow.” He spoke loudly so everyone could here. There were a few appreciative chuckles, but mostly silence.

Hortensius only nodded, and spoke softly. “Each of these men fights a brother tomorrow. I would not make the usual jokes.”

Appius sighed. He knew this, and felt the spirit of the camp as a weight on his breast that would not be removed until they were all dead or all victorious. Or until he ran.

Running was not Roman. It was not noble, not brave, not something to tell one’s children about when old age permanently sat one in a chair by the fire. On the other hand, if one ran, one could be fairly sure of being old. Especially if one had planned it as well as...

“Senator Barbatus,” a voice broke into his reverie. “Numerius sends a message, and wishes you to be at his tent at second watch.”

Appius nodded, and sent the man off to reply that he would be there. Then he turned back to survey the fires in the now dark landscape before him.

It was sick, this Roman way of considering everyone wrong except onesself. Appius had sided with Numerius and the rest of the Senators who did not support Servius, not because of his Roman blood (of which he had little, being adopted), nor because of his love of the Roman constitution. He had done it instead as a payment of gratitude to all those who had given him everything he had.

He owed the Coruncanii for nearly everything in Rome: his wife, his house, his position in the Senate. He owed Numerius greatly for the trust he had shown and for the men who now stayed under his command, even at this most critical time. He even owed Numerius a debt of gratitude for the armour he wore on his back, a gift after the sacking of Appolonia.

As he wandered back to his tent, head down, he wondered. Why was he here? Why had he not gone with his wife and children to enjoy a long and slow life on the shores of the Pontus Euxinus? The Senate forces would surely win, Numerius would be given the Consulship, and with a lion like Cnaeus in the wings, surely the Senate would be safe without his help.

His answer came easily: because he owed it to Numerius, and to the Coruncanii. He had to keep up a pretense of Romanness, of honour and virtue, as long as his debt remained.

But he felt that his debt to Rome was nearly paid. One last action of loyalty awaited, and then... then he would see.