[IB:SAI Procopii AAR] A Return to Greatness ['Deceased', until further notice.]

[McScottish]

IB:SAI Procopii AAR: A Return to Greatness!

[Property of the INVASIO BARBARORVM : SOMNIVM APOSTATAE IVLIANI team]

There are simply one-too-many AAR's currently abounding on this sub-forum concerning the dear Emperor Flavius Julianus.

As such, I have gone instead with one of my personal favourites, the usurper Procopius. To me he is a rather fascinating individual, and all the more so because so little is actually known about him, his personality or his life overall. I also chose this to answer my own 'what if' question; what if he had become Emperor, what if he had defeated the West or East and taken control as a new Julian? What would he have had to overcome, both personally and in the wider scope of things?

This I seek to work out for myself in the form of prose (if you dislike books or AAR's without pictures, I suggest you stop reading now...) using a campaign with 'huge' unit sizes, on a campaign difficulty of 'hard' and a battle setting of 'medium'. There will also be times where I shall use cheats (so sue me), but they shall be used when and where I believe they are needed (to save a faction from annihilation, etc etc) and not just for my own gain financially and so forth.

Please, feel free to read through it, ask questions, and take your time to comment.

So, without further ado, enjoy my tale and happy reading.

[Diocle]

Good! Good! Good! Gooooooooooooooooooood!!!! I like this!

Also I'm immersed in a very bloody Procopius' Campaig! I like the man! He got the purple from Claudius Flavius Iulianus, so He is the Emprah! The others are only scum elected by the eunuchs of Palace!

Great reading +rep!

[McScottish]

Good! Good! Good! Gooooooooooooooooooood!!!! I like this!

Also I'm immersed in a very bloody Procopius' Campaig! I like the man! He got the purple from Claudius Flavius Iulianus, so He is the Emprah! The others are only scum elected by the eunuchs of Palace!

Great reading +rep!

I like him too, as far as he can be liked. I also wish there was more about him, and that he had lasted longer as a contender to the brothers Pannonian. Alas, it could not be historically so, I however intend to make it so, at least in my game! Praise be to the God-Emperor, and may he grant me the strength to see this through.

P.S.

Your support is exceptionally welcome, Battle-Brother Diocle, and I hope you can continue to follow this AAR for as long as I can write it.

[McScottish]

Chapter I: Setting the Scene

Julianus was dead, to begin with. His expedition into Persia had failed him, as had his life, killed by a Saraceni blade or a Christian spear nobody knows. In the year three-hundred and sixty-five of Christ, Flavius Valentinianus Augustus became Emperor and split the West and the East between he and his brother, and Caesar, Valens. To them went power, wealth and military might unknown to the Persians or the barbarians living beyond the borders of the Rhenus and Danuvius, but not to one of their own.

Whereas the savages spread outward of the frontiers had little in the way of skill-at-war, something however replaced in them by natural skill-at-arms which the Roman peoples no longer possess, not even those of the provinces, the last scion of Constantinus and his house was an entirely different bowl of fish sauce. Supported and protected by the promises and guest-friendship of Athanareiks, so-called 'king' of the Goths, this usurper had little to fear from influences beyond the Western Empire and could concentrate his efforts on the Eastern Augustus and his long reach.

The defection of Roman legionnaires had allowed Procopius to take the City of Constantinus without opposition, and now it was from here that he conducted his schemes for the future. At first the citizens of the Eastern 'capital' had received their new overlord with little warmth, but his connections to the very dynasty which had given the city its name, and his considerable powers of persuasion, soon saw them dancing to his tune. Now tentatively unafraid of revolt, and with news reaching him that Valentinianus would not march from the West, the bearded successor of Julianus made his move against Valens in the East.

Araxius, an Illyrian by birth and the greatest war-leader available to Procopius, made praefectus praetorio orientis of the newly minted Augustus and his Asiatic provinces, defeated in quick succession two leaders of the Eastern forces sent against him. In Galatia, near Ancyra, he fought Lupicinus and defeated him utterly, striking next at Vadomarius, by both conflicts claiming back the flashing eagle of the Celtae Seniores and wrenching that of the Quinta Macedonica from their clutches.

As years moved forward, and overtures of peace were forged with barbarian nations beyond the rugged Danuvian provinces, and Valentinianus in the west, Procopius turned to more civil matters. Matters of faith. He knew that the east was secure, Araxius and his venerable tribunus Rumitalca seeing that it was so, and believed that the time was now right to rejuvenate the plans of his pagan forefathers. To this end he dismantled the Church of the Holy Apostles, not so much as a murmur being raised against him, for he allowed a practice of religious tolerance not seen since antiquity as recompense. Other Christian structures and churches he left alone, simply building temples and shrines to the Old Gods beside and around them, structures raised to the Invincible Sun, Mars and the Transcendent One within the confines of Constantinopolis and elsewhere through his slowly growing Imperium.

To the beliefs of Procopius himself, none are sure. Outwardly he is overtly dedicated to The One, and to the works of Julianus in creating an organised 'church' of the Hellenic faith, yet mutters from the gutters and the palace have made me realise a more Mithraic persuasion may belong to he who shall return the Gods back to us.

Enough about Procopius.

This year, the year three-hundred and sixty-six after the ironic nailing of the carpenter to a wooden cross, Araxius bought sword and flame to the city of Attalia. There, in the region known as Isauria, he and an army of bloodthirsty soldiers massacred over nine-thousand citizens, enslaving others and leaving but few to carry on the destiny of the settlement.

I, for one, regret my part in this occurrence, though I doubt I can say the same for my brothers-in-arms, may the Gods forgive us.

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

“Squint, are you done writing yet or what?”

As if awoken from a dream, the hunched figure looked up from his scribblings, a personal account of his campaigns and the times in which he lived, and spat a gobbet of phlegm toward the flaxen-haired soldier. A soldier who had apparently made it his oath-sworn duty to disturb him at every moment that he had free of labour or distraction.

The individuals name was Oppius Sylla, a Roman citizen since he was born to a nomadic mother and Roman father, but because of his Sarmatian ancestry and almond-shaped eyes he was known by the affectionate name of 'Squint'. Speaking to him, or harassing him more like, was a half-Frank half-Spaniard called Taruco, known to all as 'Bullock' on account of both his brains and his muscular body which seemed to ripple as he moved.

Nicknames were to be expected in any army, but in a mercenary company, a company composed for the most part of veterans who had served their twenty-five years, it was very much like an epidemic of plague. There was, for example, a man named 'Soot', a Numidian of obsidian-black skin, or 'Fat Titus', the most lithe and nimble man in the entire company. Beside these men fought 'One-eyed Andros', a Greek with two working eyes, but so bad at seeing that the name had stuck, or 'Ratinos the Frank' a man who was neither called Ratinos or who was a Frank, actually coming from the marshlands of the Anglii in the far north.

Leading them was a Thracian, a stern but fair soldier who had served beneath the banners of at least four Emperors and even managed to escape the fate of Julianus in Persia. With him came his son, a boy of adolescent years, but the one that would take over when he died by nature or by unnatural means. He claimed descent from a bloodline tracing itself back to the days of the early empire, a bloodline that contained heroes and villains in equal measure, and one that had been honoured by Caesars and Augusti through the centuries. The men called him centenarius, or 'sir', but his true name was Kersēs Laenas of clan Laenas, and he was said by many to be the usurpers hound.

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

Euphrasius, prefect and senator of Constantinopolis, and personal confidante of Procopius, watched patiently as his lord and master pawed over yet another thick tome of his successors writings. Not his immediate successor, that was the fool Jovianus, but those of his illustrious cousin, the cousin that had died and promised the purple to his blood-relative before departing for the campaign that would see his demise. Or so it was said.

Every day, for months on end, the usurper had risen from his bed and sat by the balcony which overlooked the Eastern capital. Once there he would rarely move, taking with him the writings of Julianus and muttering to himself from time-to-time. Such activity had began to take its toll on the austere Augustus, and Euphrasius could not help but feel worried.

“That was the problem, Euphrasius, it always has been,” croaked the round-shouldered reader, always catching his prefects attention with his few words, “Julianus was clever. Too clever. This 'church' he wished to create, one which I am creating in his stead, it is the legacy of an overly intelligent man.”

The Gallic senator did not understand, raising an eyebrow as his Emperor spoke, “my lord?”

“I shall change it, it shall become a church that can grant rewards in this life and the next. If we are to oppose the might of Christianity, then we must make choices available to slaves and the poor, not just educated tribunes and grey-haired senators.”

There was a knock at the door as he paused, Euphrasius striding over to open it with a sweep of his arm, a tall soldier standing there in armour which would have been more suited to an earlier century. Over a well-kept relic of segmented armour, a crested helmet sitting in the crook of his arm, was a chequered cloak and at his hip a curved blade kept sharp enough to sever a mans limb from his body. As the door opened a slap was given to his chest, rising into a salute.

“Laenas, please come in.”

Out from the shadow of the corridor, with its high ceiling and little illumination by natural light, stepping into an infinitely brighter room, tribunus Kersēs Laenas could be seen more clearly. Certainly he was a figure of military virtue and stoic behaviour, his greying temples and craggy features showing the advance of years on a man that had once fought in the ranks but was now technically discharged.

When he spoke his voice was like two rocks rubbing against one another, his face barely shifting from one expression to the next, his teeth seemingly unable to separate and his eyes stuck looking at something in the kid-distance.

“Hail Augustus, Procopius hail.”

“Laenas,” greeted Procopius with a smile, his bearded countenance creasing so much that some of the evident weariness seemed to fade away, “I take it you are here for orders?”

For months the mercenary tribunus had been leading his men, fighting alongside Araxius and his auxilia palatinae across the grassy plains and rugged mountains of Asia and Isauria. During this time he had lost over eighty men, though he was never short of willing volunteers either, and had ridden as if Hades was at his back from Isauria, where his cohors were building a fortlet amongst the rocks of a mountain pass, to receive further orders from the one man who issued them to him directly.

“I am, highness,” affirmed the Thracian, a look of fatigue momentarily pushing through the granite-hard façade of his public mask, “I have found hundreds of men, veterans of the Persian Expedition and older yet, all clamouring for a chance to serve the heir of Constantinus and reforge the res publica the way it was meant to be.”

Months before Procopius had made 'his move', proclaiming himself the rightful Emperor and bribing two legions on their way to the east, he had gathered Laenas and a number of discharged officers. Once they were congregated in a single place, he had given each of them enough coin to attract others. It was a ploy that had worked, infantry and cavalrymen hurrying back to long-forgotten banners and forming into organised companies of soldiers who would fight for coin and kill whomever they were told to kill.

“Good, well, indulge them...”

Rising from his chair, a couple of inches shorter than the veteranus, but no less stout, Procopius swept a scroll from a nearby table and thrust it into the hand of Laenas before returning to his seat and waving a hand to signal that he was dismissed.

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

Two slate-grey eyes swept over the markings on the scroll, reading and then re-reading so that he was able to commit the words to memory. For a moment the armoured soldier looked up, giving a small smirk to see the Church of the Holy Apostles without a roof and only half as tall as it had been when his Augustus took the reigns of power for himself. One more read and he scrunched up the roll of papyri, taking a deep breath of air, tinged with the smell and taste of roasting meat, and moved away down the crowded streets of the capital city until he disappeared into the crowd.

[McScottish]

Chapter I: Setting the Scene, Part Deux

Reflected in the burnished surface of the flattened bronze circle, sat atop a long hand-grip of Cyprian wood, into the length of which small lumps of gold had been placed, was the recovering face of a man who had been in hiding since the death of a man he loved. It was the dark eyes of a frightened man, framed by the sun-browned skin of a Cilician native, that stared back at Procopius as he scrutinised himself and his ragged appearance as closely as he dared.

Was this the face of an evil man, a tyrant, he wondered.

The edges of his once scraggly beard were now sharp and defined, his hair cut to a short and modest style, and his ragged pages clothing now replaced with a corslet of shimmering scale over a tunic of richly spun wool dyed green. Over this was flung a cloak of purple, found in the vaults of the palace and bought to the usurper without argument, now attached together at his right shoulder by a brooch of Germanic style and made of gold.

When the soldiers and citizens of Constantinopolis had first proclaimed him Emperor, more because of the tyranny they had suffered at the hands of Valens' lackeys and the riches they imagined he could grant them than any sense of right or wrong, duty or love of ones country, his face had been gaunt and almost cadaverous. Now it was beginning to fill itself again, to regain some of its old looks, but his eyes could not lie and conceal the inner soul of a man who was entirely unsure of what he had done and was going to do. Already he was beginning to feel the paranoia that must have gripped usurpers of the past, trusting only a handful of companions and relatives and disregarding many of the rest.

Since his ascension nearly a year ago he had not been idle, doing many things to bring back a faith which many would rather see destroyed, building a revised 'church' on the basis of Julianus' designs but including some of his own ideals. He had re-arranged the governing structures of the Thracian provinces, of Greece and Macedonia, and both raised men from the bottom of a corrupt heap and lowered men into the deluge of dishonesty which existed in parts of every Empire. Some came willingly, some even volunteering, whilst others he had to pressure into service, and even more of his so-called 'defenders' he distrusted. The only thing that made him feel secure were those soldiers that had served Julianus, and now volitionally transferred their loyalties to him as the last heir of the dynasty of Constantine the Great.

No, he was not a monster, he was the rightful ruler of what could be his - what should be his – lands, persons and wealth which would return Roma and the res publica to a golden heyday others had thought were long since over for the Roman race.

And yet, had he needed to order the killing of thousands, of the citizens of Sinope and Ancyra?

“Urgh,” snorted the man-who-would-be-king, placing his mirror back on the table by which he sat, a hand running through his hair and the scales of his armour clinking as he stretched.

Relief, he needed relief, that only he had got thus far was that he had not been attacked from both the west and the east at the same time. Valentinianus, the elder of the Pannonian brothers, had been willing to speak with his emissary and accepted a treaty of non-hostility. Procopius knew this was only because he was occupied along the Rhenus by the Alamanni and the Danuvius by the Quadi, and long may they distract him prayed the Cilician Imperator. Valens on the other hand, well, he would stop at nothing to destroy Procopius and see his head on the tip of a spear. It did not seem to bother the junior Emperor that his legions had been decimated, his trusted generals put in chains or slain, and his borders threatened by the Persian Empire, all his will seemed bent on slaying the only man capable of opposing his brother and he for rulership of the Roman world.

After lifting himself from his chair with a sigh, his soft-soled shoes making little sound as he crossed the floor of his palace chamber, Procopius walked to an alcove specifically made for his own purposes. It was taller than a man, and wider, but illuminated by only one torch and as deep as a small cave. Set inside it was an altar, and on that altar sat a figurine of the invincible deity bought from the east, Mithras. It was to him that Procopius prayed in times of need, although he was oddly tolerant of every faith, and set on bringing about a balance between Christianity and the old faiths with his new 'church', the whole back wall of this artificial hollow covered with a mosaic of the tauroctony. In this scene Mithras killed the primordial bullock and bought about the birth of the universe, it was a powerful scene which was seen by many amongst the upper levels of Procopius' government.

Sat next to the small statuette, about as large as a mouse standing upright, was a portrait of two figures oh so dear to his heart. Staring at him from the barely lit darkness were the painted eyes of his son, Sebastianus, a boy of youthful years who nonetheless was far more intelligent and active than his eleven or so years needed him to be. Next to him, her arm wrapped about his shoulder in a posture of motherly love, was his wife and the mother of his son, beautiful and sharp as a flint. Both were still hidden, Procopius not yet secure enough in mind or in his power to risk bringing them to the capital, no matter how much he wished they were there.

Slowly he knelt on the cold fl0or of the chamber, squinting up at the figure with its Phrygian cap and billowing cloak, incense ever burning so as to create an almost cloying cloud of strong-smells and eye-watering smog.

“Lord Mithras, protector of soldiers and kin of the invincible Sun, I wish for your blessing and your guidance. Tomorrow I march to war, I beseech you that you may allow me to live that I may see my wife and son again, so that I may regain my place as Emperor and successor of my cousin and blood-brother, Claudius Flavius Iulianus. Let his death not have been in vein, and let not the discord sown in the wake of his demise go unpunished. If you grant me this, I shall build temples to your greatness and sacrifice a hundred bulls in your name. See me triumphant, bring me victory."

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

Cold swept down from the mountains, the kind of cold that would make an Asian or an African shiver, to bite at the very core of the assembled soldiers. Out before them, having done as he was ordered to do by his Emperor, paced the Thracian tribunus in his crested helm and segmented armour. A cloak was worn to keep the cold from seeping too deeply into his bones, but it was not really needed, the Thracians and the Illyrians vying for the honour of being the hardest bastards in the Roman army and the tribes of both mountain peoples having become inured to the bitter chill of their homelands since the day they were born. Beside him strode a shorter version of himself, though only by an inch, his face containing the same grey eyes and crow-black hair and his face set in the same inscrutable expression.

Walking patiently through the ankle-deep snow, one charged with carrying the shield and spear of the other, the more senior of the pair inspected the soldiers of his own cohors. Twenty to twenty-five years of service, experience in at least one set battle, and the ability to keep your body in decent physical shape and your equipment usable were the most rudimentary requirements that Laenas expected of any miles in his service and therefore employ. So far, after five years of leading a rag-tag band of veterans, he had never had to cut someone from his command for not reaching these requirements, only for actions such as rape, theft and criminal acts against civilians and each other.

All around him other officers were doing the same, some he knew and some he did not. There was Andraemon of Crete, a man in charge of nearly six-hundred archers gathered from the provinces, a discharged instructor known to be tough on his men and not to smile unless shooting someone or something. In front of his men stood arrayed the remnants of four auxiliary cohorts, men stationed in the Danuvian provinces since the time of Augustus and simply forgotten about. About five-hundred there were, all armed in the same manner, bearing their large oval shields, men from proud formations, from the cohors quintae Gallorum, the cohors quartae Raetorum and the cohors primae Batavorum that had been stationed in Dacia until the rearranging of the provinces. Now they were simply cohorts of the limitanei, no good for anything but guarding frontiers and forgetting the deeds of their venerable ancestors. Similar to these, but amassing nearly eight-hundred men, were the centuries of the ripenses who stood and spoke most leisurely even under the gaze of their tribunes and junior officers.

Only when a speck appeared on the horizon did they find the moment to be right to stand at attention and close their mouths, all eyes turning to watch the newest of Emperors approach, surrounded on all side by horsemen of his freshly formed scholae. Each one of these cavalrymen, privileged above mere equites in a number of ways, was personally selected by Procopius and induced in many ways to remain loyal to him and even to die for him. Their shirts of mail, like their shields of gold and helmets plumed with white, were of the finest manufacture and served to show that they were an elite and that Procopius was not merely playing at being Julianus' successor.

To their rear, some two-hundred men later, came the rugged horse-warriors of the equites Dalmatii, Dalmatian tribesmen as hardy as any of their Illyrian brethren, and a mounted contingent under the leadership of a man that Laenas had asked for personally. His name was Optantius, a native of Hispania and one of the finest horsemen that his Thracian comrade had ever seen. Over one-hundred men followed him, each the mounted equivalent of their coin-hired infantry counterparts, veterans who had ridden from Britannia to Persia and knew nothing more than the trade of the sword.

In the flat basin of the north-western valley, some miles south-east of Serdica, the slightest sound echoed from the sloping hills and now Procopius used this to his advantage. With only two personal guards to flank him, their eyes ever alert and weapons ever keen for blood, the self-imposed Augustus rode his chestnut stallion to the front of their ranks where all could see him and know that it was their paymaster and leader who addressed them now. Dressed as he was, in his cloak of purple and polished scales of bronze, looking every inch the conquering ruler.

“Soldiers of Rome, brothers of my blood, I did not think I should ever see so many willing to lay down their lives for my person. When I was in hiding, when Jovianus tried in vain to seek me out, that he may extinguish the last of the line of Constantinus, such were my dreams and now they have become as real as my own heart.”

Without warning, he took something from inside his scaled corslet and wrapped it about his hand, a ragged piece of material which whipped back and forth as a wind began to moan through the pass.

“This is a piece of the very same cloak that Julianus wore, wore when he was struck in the back by a treacherous spear. Who, I ask, could have allowed, even incited or bought, such treachery? Jovianus? No, but a Pannonian who then elected his own brother as co-Emperor? I think you know, as I do, the true answer.”

Tenderly, he raised the crimson rag to his lips and kissed it deeply. There were whispers through the ranks, a ripple of collective feeling, especially from those that had any feeling of pride in who they were and what they fought for. Laenas knew it to be a piece of theatre, as was the possession of the wife and son of the late Julianus, just another tool by which Procopius could control the fickle imaginations and sentiments of the armed mob.

“Valentinianus had granted me, and therefore yourselves, a measure of peace. Peace. Yet his brother, a bloodthirsty tyrant in the same mould as Sulla himself, will never allow anything of the sort until he is dead in the snow of the north or the sands of the east.”

Tears began to form in the eyes of the Cilician now, a race of people known for their piratical history and deceptive natures, and he dramatically wiped those same tears from his eyes using the rag of what most there believed was indeed the cloak of Julianus.

“Two cities west of the Hellespont remain to our enemy, and this time next year I intend to have taken them both...” he raised a hand as some began to cheer, gesturing for silence in the ranks so that he may finish, “only with your blessing and your loyalty can I do this. Riches await you, my soldiers, wealth and slaves to buy. Follow me, fight for me, and I promise you both in ample amount. Follow me, my children, follow me to the walls of Serdica and beyond!”

Such a clamour was raised in the wake of the speech that that Laenas believed he may lose his hearing, weapons clashed against the rims of shields and a rolling cheer surrounding him. Only his own kept silent, obedient to the rules of discipline instilled in them by their tribunus.

Procopius, his tears miraculously gone as swiftly as they had come, waved his scholae forward and took up a position at the head of the column as it wound its way through the narrow defiles of interior Thrace, and into what was now known as the province of Dardania. Safe in the knowledge that his men would follow him, out of greed, out of a sense of dynastic loyalty, or simply because they did not know what else to do with their short and squalid lives.

None of this mattered to him, just as long as they followed and obeyed.

[Evalation]

Hey man, its been a while scince ive commented on your AARs, I just started reading this one yesterday and I have to say im enjoying this one with a new found love for Rome. I think youve inspired me to give IB: SAI another shot and fight through the CTDS.

I await the new update with great anticipation.

[McScottish]

Hey man, its been a while scince ive commented on your AARs, I just started reading this one yesterday and I have to say im enjoying this one with a new found love for Rome. I think youve inspired me to give IB: SAI another shot and fight through the CTDS.

I await the new update with great anticipation.

I'm glad you're reading/enjoying it!

I've never really had any love for Rome, as I'm more of a 'barbarian' myself. However, as a balance between playing as Rome or a Barbarian faction, I decided just instead to go with the rebel Roman faction instead. IB:SAI is certainly a MOD well worth playing, if you can update it to the latest patch and then navigate your way through the CTD's. Really in-depth, and excellent if you wish to role-play or write an AAR about it.

I hope you'll like the next update as much as the rest, and it should be coming soon. So, stay tuned!

[McScottish]

[Found here.]



Chapter II: Skirmishes and Sieges, Part I (Winter, 366 AD)

Papyri scrolls fluttered on the short-legged camp table, writings instruments scattered about the rough documents, as a stiff breeze lifted edges and ruffled nerves, scribbles of Latin and Greek characters already visible on a great number of them and ink dripping lazily into the surface of the German-crafted furniture. Sitting on an equally portable chair at the table, his head drooping onto his broad chest, Procopius no longer had any realisation of the world outside of his dozing mind. Rivets of dribble marked the off-white of his tunic, weeks of marching from Thracia into lands which had once been known as Moesia, but now held the name of Dardania, taking there tiring toll on the Augustus as much as on any of his soldiers.

Watching over him from the opening of the tent - the tent itself not much larger than those of the auxiliary and frontier farmer-soldiers his pet mercenary had gathered for him – was Numerius Helividius Mancinus. It was he who held the, some might say, enviable position of Procopius' praepositus sacri cubiculi, being the recently conscripted curtain between his Emperor and the outside world. Unlike most 'men' of his rank, he was still in possession of fully intact genitals and was not some dickless eunuch, in fact the military record of Mancinus was one of heroic action and determined grit in the face of overwhelming odds, a lineage somewhat belied by his unassuming state of being and demur manner but nonetheless as true as the sky or the air.

For one who theoretically wielded great power, that of Mancinus cut in two by his service to a supposed usurper and not a lawful Emperor, the Britannic born veteranus did little with it. His clothing was that of a dull grey tunic without any embellishments, an evenly dull paenula whipped back over his shoulders to leave his once thick arms exposed, the skin now beginning to wrinkle and his muscles softer than they had been as a younger man, he possessed no estates or items of worth except for the spatha at one hip and the dagger on the other, and his accoutrements did much to enhance his psychical image.

Taller than most, save barbarian recruits from inside and across the limes, he nevertheless seemed quite harmless. His broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist, two lean arms ending in large hands matching his legs, topped by thick thighs that narrowed as they descended to his feet. Facially he was what you may expect of one who had seen many years, his pale skin pinched and furrowed over his high-boned cheeks, a hooked nose with a pointed tip squatting over a small mouth with thin lips, and his hair – once black as a Cimmerian night – now streaked with the same patterned white as a badger.

All-in-all, he looked and acted little like the pampered palace neuters, seeing everything with his different coloured eyes, one green and one hazel, and keeping his silence until spoken to. Loyalty too was something which the half-men of Valens and his court knew little about, but Mancinus would have given his life to protect that sleeping, dribbling, man within.

“He sleeps often?” Came a voice from behind the unusual chamberlain, making the ex-soldier turn swiftly, his hand on the hilt of the twelve-inch dagger.

When he saw Laenas standing there, a concerned expression on his face, he quickly relaxed and shook his head gravely. “If he truly did inherit anything from Julianus, it must be his fondness for staying awake into the early hours. A habit, I am afraid, which may be quite detrimental. Alas, when you have an Empire to organise I suppose there is little else that can be done.”

The Thracian gave a nod of understanding, taking in a deep lungful of the mountain air and, one hand resting gently on his own weapon, raised his other with his open palm showing.

“I came only to give my report,” he uttered, glancing briefly at the grey clouds rolling overhead, “the miners have began their work in the plain. If it was not for the snow, they may have the walls of Serdica tumbling down sooner.” Again, unconsciously, he took in the stark white clouds which moved ahead of the greying sky, “more of which we can expect, if I am not mistaken.”

As if hearing him, the Gods – or God - saw fit to unleash a torrent of pure, icy, flakes from the sky and send them in a swirling mass to earth. A whirl of whipping winds and frigid torrents which soon caused men to clutch tightly to their cloaks, wish they had bought an extra pair of socks, an grumble to one another about ill-fortuned luck and her fickle favours. The pair outside the tent responded by clasping forearms, an old soldiers gesture that had fallen out of use along with the old legiones, and turning about to return to their separate duties, and would have had a figure not launched itself into the path of the startled tribunus.

“Tribune!” Gasped the youth, a soldier from one of the old auxilia cohorts by the look of his bronze helmet and green-faced shield, “men are approaching the siege-lines from the north-west, a relief force of some sort.”

Laenas gave a grunt of frustration, he should have known they would try to save the city from an ignoble and blood-washed fate by any means necessary. Two figures of importance to the Eastern provinces still held power here; the Illyrian Prefect Vulcacius Rufinus, trapped now inside the stone walls of Serdica, and an Illyrian of advanced years known only as 'Victor', the man Valens had appointed as vicarius Daci and magister equitum praesentalis who resided at Singidunum. The latter being the man who many believed Valens had even appointed as his Caesar. Now some fool came to 'rescue' Rufinus and his command, traipsing through a snow-storm that had taken all by sudden surprise, coming to face a force which neither side knew outnumbered them greatly.

“You saw standards?” Questioned Laenas, gripping the man by his shoulders.

Stunned by the quick action, the man nodded his head vigorously, “I did, at least two cohorts and some horsemen, possibly Sarmatae.”

Procopius had emerged from his tent, disturbed by the wailing of the wind and the raised voices, Mancinus hard at his shoulder.

“Well, tribune, what is happening?”

Gritting his teeth together, grating them for a moment, the mercenary was overcome with thoughts and said nothing. He had not expected to be attacked this quickly, but from the sound of it he had little to fear, if the soldiers report was correct. If it was not, they could be marching straight into a slaughter.

“I would strap on your lorica, your Highness, we are going into battle,” waving a hand at the wide-eyed young messenger he had to bellow in order to be heard above the weather, “go and find every tubicen you can, this army must we wakened and assembled.” The boy did nothing, standing there and continuing to watch, until Laenas gave him a light slap across the cheek, “go!”

Off he ran, sprinting into the murky gloom of grey sky and falling snow, and moments later Procopius emerged once more from his tent clad in the garments and armour of a warrior-king.

They were going to battle.

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

Only the plumes, helmet ridges, and eyes of the stooping soldiers could be seen above the rounded edges of the shields held before them like talismans of war. A line of nearly two-thousand infantry loyal to Procopius, most holding a brace of javelins in one hand and a shield in the other, the men around Laenas forgoing such things and instead patiently waiting with their spatha drawn and held low for the moment. Yet every man in the line, every man, touched the rim of his shield to that of his neighbour on his right, forming for a considerable front an unbroken line of wood and metal centres and only that to their enemy. Behind them stood two deep lines of archers, every man with an arrow knocked to his string, and beyond them sat Procopius and his cavalry, his position considered cowardly by some but none who would voice their opinion to him in person. In front of them, snow and a thin layer of mist clouding everything, a man could see no further than the tip of his spear and the entire shield-wall waited with the patience of men with nowhere to go and nowhere to hide.

Out there were the enemy, unseen but not entirely unheard, the movement of shifting armour and the snorting of horses causing the hairs on the back of Squints neck to stand on end. He, along with the rest of his comrades in the cohort of Laenas, had all undertaken battles before – and yet the moments when one was forced to wait for the foe to appear were still capable of robbing a man of his wits before the two lines even met.

“Come on,” growled the short veteran, his eyes narrowing to nearly lines on his face, his skin as cold as his surroundings, “can you bloody feel your nose?” He asked of a man standing beside him, a dusky Syrian with oiled hair, named as 'Hawk' due to his eyesight, “I feel nothing,” came the hushed reply, “only the beating of my heart in my chest and bulging of my bladder.” The eyes of both men met for the quickest of moments, but each chuckled along with the other even as they refocused their gaze toward a slowly rising noise of motion out in front of them and to their right.

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

Near the right of the line, sandwiched between two other centuries, was that of Centenarius Decimus Wulf. He and his men of a limitanei century, some hundred-and-twenty men, were all natives of the Greuthungi lands beyond the Danuvius river and bordering the expanding territory of the Hunnic nomads. They had been recruited into the eastern army when they offered their services in return for pay, and land inside the borders of the Roman Empire, receiving both along the river which acted as a natural border to themselves and the Romans. Equipped and armed they had been, from a Roman factory, the Empire especially keen to recruit men of naturally warlike peoples into their ranks.

It was unfortunate therefore that Decimus was not the first one to see the horses or their riders, both covered in layers of fish-like scale which shimmered brilliantly in the snow, but was warned by a shout from over his shoulder. He was just berating a man behind him when the tip and half the shaft of a kontos entered through his chest and burst through his back in a spurt of gore, his body dragged out of the foremost ranks as the Sarmatian horseman retreated for another charge. Now his ducenarius, a giant of a man and known by all for his prodigious strength, stepped in to fill the space left by his senior and yelled for his men to ready their javelins.

More and more horsemen appeared out of the snowstorm, large men on large horses yelling in a language unknown to their Roman prey. They wielded two-handed lances, aiming both their mounts and these weapons straight at the mass of gathered Goths in front of them. If the line could just stand firm, then perhaps they could avoid a nasty death amongst these blighted hills.

“Prepare javelins,” boomed the voice of the junior officer, a parade-ground voice heard by many recruits during their long hours of boring drill, “hold...” the Sarmatians, in the service of Rome though they were, had never shied away from running bodily into a cluster of infantry and only sped up their charge as they saw the projectiles being raised, “hold your weapons!” Called the ducenarius, gauging the distance and damage to be caused, the opposing cavalry mere feet away when his sword swept down with a shout, “throw!”

Triangular heads, nine inches in length, punctured armour and toppled both men and horses with there first flight. Where horses went down, others had to move to avoid them or the riders risked crippling their own mounts in their search for blood. Another flight saw further carnage, but it was already too late, the Sarmatians had gathered too much momentum and could not be stopped by missiles alone. It was up to the infantry to hold their ground or die.

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

In the wake of the Sarmatians came a shield-wall not unlike that of the Usurpers men, shorter and more squat perhaps but a good attempt at a sturdy formation without a doubt. Two cohorts of auxilia marched into view, Illyrians and Dalmatians recruited from the mountainous regions where prime fighting men could be found, and a third cohort of spear-armed soldiers which few in the ranks of the defenders recognised. Laenas, however, did recognise them. They were part of a legion of which parts fought for both Valens and Procopius, gruff-looking men of the Tertia Iulia Alpina. The distinctive pattern of a plain black dark shield bordered in red, the dull mail shirts and the deep blue plumes, all identified them as members of a legion that had once served in the field army and now owed loyalty to different masters.

Just over four-hundred now marched unwittingly at an army twice their size, the snow shrouding most of the line from view, a man looking to his left or his right would see nothing of anyone after the first couple of centuries and cohorts on either side. As they got nearer the worried expressions on their faces became clearer, some of old hands and others of fresh-faced boys taken from their farms and mother, spears wavering in their hands and only the men of the Alpina grinding through the snow without any hint of hesitation in their stride or motion of their weapons.

“Valens!” They roared from four-hundred mouths, spears banging on shields as they came, “Valens, Valens, Va-lens!” Such cries were the sign of a frightened enemy, and the veterans of the 'Rough Company' could only smile under their helmets and behind their shields at the nerve of these amateurs.

To the left and the right of the swords-for-hire missiles were raised, shouts rising from throats of authority, auxilia cohorts and limitanei soldiers waiting for their enemy to bring himself within the distance of a javelin or weighted throwing dart. This they did slowly, all shouts silenced, readying their own missiles in return as they marched. Very soon both sides were facing one another, a spears throw away, and it was then that it rained iron.

From both sides they fell, men clutching protruding shafts and some sobbing as they slumped to the freezing ground and died in the snow. Others were gone before they even hit the ground, the shock killing them and reliving others of the cruel and terrible noises made by the dying. Those cries were ever present as more missiles fell, Laenas raising his shield each time the terrible weapons were thrown again, the tribunus drawing his own sword across the throat of 'Axe-Face', a dying Frank who was leaving the world far too tardily for the liking of his commanding officer. One javelin was thrown so hard that Laenas lurched back into another soldier, the impact sending the head of the spear through the boards and leather hide which made up his shield.

When all was done and over, they charged. Respect had to be given them for that, hurling their own bodies straight into a mass of killers with only their shields, armour and luck for protection. Behind them they left a number of bodies, their ranks shifting as they charged to fill the spaces of their fallen, Procopius' line rippling with the impact and the Thracian tribune bracing himself with a growl.

He did not know if they ever believed they would be able to win, if their leader had told them it was so, but as soon as the metal boss of his circular shield hit that of the moustached Gaul directly opposite him, just observing the mans reaction to his unmoving body and blood-hungry glare, he knew even if they did not that defeat and death was the only destiny of this so-called 'relief'.

[McScottish]

Nearly two-hundred views, and only two comments? You're killing me people, but fair enough. Beggers can't be choosers.

[Evalation]

I have over 1000 on my spartan one and only a total of 4 have commented on it.

But this is a great AAR, one of the best ones on he late roman empire out there, keep it up please!

[McScottish]

I have over 1000 on my spartan one and only a total of 4 have commented on it.

But this is a great AAR, one of the best ones on he late roman empire out there, keep it up please!

Oh, I shall. I'm just mock complaining really. Keep your AAR up too, it's a darn good one. Though I may not comment frequently, I still read it.

[Justinian Australis]

Very nice tale so far McScottish. The Procopii campaign is one of my favourites....had a smashing run with them once, covering the east in a sea of white. The battles against the Persians were long and bloody.

Looking forward to more.

[McScottish]

Chapter II: Skirmishes and Sieges, Part II (Summer to Autumn, 367 AD)

“Nike, that often fickle winged goddess, patron of great leaders and aged warriors, is no doubt on the side of Procopius Augustus. The destruction of the relief force, their corpses freezing by now in the icy wasteland of a Thracian glen, gave a great deal of moral support to the army and placed greater faith in the minds of the men where Procopius was concerned. Had this been the end of her benevolent behaviour, we would still have followed him to the edge of the world and beyond, but these were not the blessings she desired to pour upon him.

No, there was much, much, more.

The following spring, long after our first victory, but our tongues reddened and still tasting of blood, we marched on starving Serdica. The battle was fierce, our miners doing their work and bringing down the towering walls that others may make use of their breaches. Into the city we swarmed, like ants or other insects, scuttling through the alleyways and towards the forum at the centre of every true Roman city, great or small. Here was where any cowards would run, and we knew this as truth.

Running fights broke out as we engaged the enemy, both their army and our own taking the most direct route from collapsed rubble to the city's heart. In this the Illyrian Rufinus, prefect of all Illyricum, did his utmost to deny us entry and occupation of the city he had been charged with protecting. The Gods were not with him that day however, and nearly three-thousand roaring besiegers clashed with two-thousand or so soldiers still loyal to Valens in the East.

What followed was one of the harshest of brawls, each side stabbing and hacking for their lives, horsemen barging others aside with their mounts to get their foes and my own cohort, the Rough Company, suffering the loss of nearly fifty comrades in as many minutes.

Victory would not be theirs, because it was ours. When Rufinus was killed, an archers arrow through his gullet, the heart was torn from the chest of his followers and nothing that his subordinates could do would coerce them to fight on against us.

Procopius, our beloved lord and paymaster, had no time for even the chance of revolt. To this end, over seven-thousand of the citizens of the city were put to death. Those soldiers that would not swear fealty to him – few though they were – were added to this, those that would join him acting as fresh conscripts for our army, a thousand of which lay as corpses by the sieges end. Some of the more experienced of these were picked out by tribunus Laenas, his practised eye selecting men both proficient in war and loyalty from those that had laid their arms down before us.

Triumph over other Romans is never worthy of celebration, and celebrate we did not.

Instead the city was plundered from highest rooftop to the lowest cellar, every last coin and item of value being torn from houses, churches, and anywhere else they could be found. Since the population of the city had been cut by thousands, there was plenty to which no-one any longer held claim and although their former owners did not make any verbal protest, the smell which their unburied or burned corpses let off in the nearing summer heat was objection enough.

Leaving a strong garrison in Serdica, few, if any, left there with enough strength to challenge their new Emperor, Procopius emerged from a period of rest to advance West in the heat of the summer months with just over two-thousand soldiers at his back. Further veterans were paid, men from the retreat of Julianus still seeking employment for their brains and their blades, and soon enough Singidunum became the focus of the rightful Emperors brawn.

Here was the last of the cities governed from across the Hellespont, and here was Victor, the [b]Vicarius Daci[b] and the man who would be Augustus, should Valens meet an ill-fated end in the East. He was fifty years of experienced soldier, a patricius of Valens and as solid a friend as any Emperor could seek in such a corrupt world as we live in.

For these reasons he refused to surrender, and Procopius was too impatient to wait for the city to fall by starvation or treachery. In Constantinopolis, his wife Drusilla had given birth to his second daughter, his son and heir Sebastianus growing quick and all under the supervision of the Gaul Euphrasius, prefect of the city, senator of Constantinopolis, and worshipper of the Old Gods. Impatience is ever his weakness, and he would not be parted with his family for longer than was necessary to destroy a threat to his reign.

All these movements were only possible because of Araxius and Rumitalca, his two tribunes in the East, the two men that wielded all the power on the other side of the Hellespont and kept at bay the ever encroaching legions of Valens. During that summer they defeated adversaries, just as they had since being elevated to their most recent positions of office, those of praetorian prefect of the orient and Comes Pontus respectively. The second given to Rumitalca for his acquiring of Sinope, as much as for his seniority in years and his unchristian faith.

Singidunum fell much likes its predecessor, Victor announcing from the walls that he would not surrender and would fight to his death. Prophetic words indeed, for this is exactly what he did. Aged he may have been, but he was right to be so highly held by Valens, he neither asked for mercy or gave it, but in the end he lay headless at the feet of a Gothic conscript, the head presented to our Augustus and the man rewarded heartily for his unique part in the downfall of the stronghold.

Unlike Serdica, where every man had stained his hands with innocent blood, those citizens of Singidunum were given what could be seen as a worse fate; all those of elderly years were ordered away to the mines spread across Thracia and Illyricum, men and women both, those women and men of mature years to be dispersed between the Balkan provinces and those of Greece as house-slaves, field-slaves or any other slaves that were needed, whilst women or girls with children were left as they were.

Once more those men of beardless youth were conscripted into the army, along with the survivors of Victors command, little over a thousand soldiers now filling the ranks of the green garrison and army of Procopius.

What came next, none could have foreseen, for it would prove without a doubt that Victoria favoured our own Emperor and despised all others.”

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

The Usurper was wondering whether he could even go on, having enslaved an entire city and massacred the inhabitants of another. That had been the work of but a few months, now he was a year older and his wife had given birth to another daughter, Livilla, to form a trio with her elder sister Claudia and his own heir Sebastianus. Since moving into Illyricum, he had sent orders back to Constantinopolis for his family to be bought out of hiding and houses securely in the palace and the city, trusting with all his hope that Euphrasius was the man he believed the Gaul to be.

Sitting in the chair where Victor had once sat, his eyes looking out of the chamber and overlooking the forum, the visible domes of the Christian church silently mocking him, he sighed and wiped a hand across his brow. His hair had began to grow again, and he would need to see it shortened, his beard returning to a more straggled state across his face and his eyes bloodshot from too many nights studying inaccurate maps and works of strategy which were centuries out of date. Caesar's accounts of Gaul were unlikely to teach or tell him anything he did not already know.

Nonetheless, he had done it. He had annihilated any trace of Valens in the West, and now had the entire and solid support of the army, the plunder from Serdica alone paying for the campaigns he had taken them into and made sure that they came out of. In his wake he had left a capable young Goth, an Arian by the name of Jovius Horatius, to keep order in desolated Serdica and had thus far heard nothing of complaint from the city. Yet another good sign, he prayed.

A sharp rap at the door grabbed his attention, his head swivelling on his neck and his eyes narrowing, “yes?” He inquired loudly, the head of Mancinus emerging through the crack in the door, “Augustus, I apologise for disturbing you. There is a man here, he says his name is Cato.”

After thinking for a moment, something clicking in his memory, Procopius waved a hand, “allow him in, please.”

The man who stepped into the room was just that, a man. He was so plain, so average in all aspects, that he would pass unnoticed wherever he went. Not only that, he could speak the various dialects of the Germans and adapt to his situation like a chameleon to his surroundings. His name was not even Cato, it was Athenaeus Salvidienus, a name known only to himself and Procopius.

“My lord,” he said with a stiff bow, his face expressionless and unreadable and his tone utterly flat, “I have news you may wish to hear, if you will permit me.”

A seat was summoned and the agentes in rebus was seated opposite the most recent candidate for Emperor of the Roman Empire. Resting his hands gently in his lap, and wish permission to speak, he opened his mouth and reported to his superior in a monotonous tone.

“My task was a success, you will be pleased to know. The son of Valens, recently come to manhood, has established himself in the eastern city of Tarsus,” a city which Procopius happened to know inside and out. Tarsus, pacified by Pompey Magnus and where the remains of Julianus had been interred, was a metropolis in his native Cilicia and the seat of the Roman governor of that province. This news made Procopius smile, his eyes dancing in the glare of the summer sunlight shining into the room.

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes, news which may prompt you into action.”

This piqued the interest of the Usurper, or the man that was seen as such by his many enemies, and he leant forward. The smile was gone, replaced with a raised eyebrow and a gesture that he was listening.

“I understand that Valentinianus is at peace with you, for now?” Asked the agent, already knowing the answer but receiving a coarse grunt and nod in answer to his query, “some weeks ago, a group of bandits moved across the Danuvius and entered Dardania. These included two Roman cohorts, of the Attacotti primae and secunda-,” Procopius snorted again, “what does this have to do with anything, get to the point.” The tone of Athenaeus did not waver as he spoke, any annoyance or irritation he may have felt being cleverly concealed, “it just so happens that the Attacotti are part of the Western army and therefore deserters. Your 'cousin' Valentinianus was campaigning against the Quadi near Salonae when they ran, and has followed them with his field army into the hills and mountains of Illyria and Dalmatia. Over a thousand men he has bought, including the Ioviani and Herculiani.”

For a moment Procopius was not sure what he had just heard, or what the point of it was, but the more he thought about it the sooner it came to his mind.

“You mean...”

“Yes, my Augustus. Valentinianus has violated the terms of your treaty, bringing his legions into your orbit under the pretence of chasing deserters, but really with an aim to take your cities for himself.”

“Yes,” agreed the insecure Emperor, already formulating a marching route and troop distributions in his mind, a chuckle coming from his throat the more he thought about it, “yes, he has.”

[McScottish]

Chapter II: Death of an Emperor (Autumn, 367 AD)

“Impossible,” announced Laenas with a slight hiss, his eyes narrowed as he looked up at the heights where Valentinianus and his army now waited for them. Silhouetted against a backdrop of depressing grey clouds and jutting mountain peaks, the Emperor of the West had seen them coming and taken refuge on the plateau of a hill steeper than the plunge into Hades. On either side the supreme defensive position was surrounded by other hills, the valley rising an falling like waves on the ocean, a precipitous slope rising up the left side of the mountain and the right side an almost sheer drop.

Since discovering that Valentinianus had entered those lands that he called his, knowing that he would need to leave a garrison in Singidunum to assure loyalty, Procopius had ordered the assemblage of every Illyrian and Dalmatian soldier that would fight for him. Recruiters and their gangs of hired thugs had scattered far and wide through the Balkans, Thracians coming down from the mountains by themselves, and soon enough the Usurper was reinforced by nearly three-hundred infantry and equal that number of cavalry, all dour inhabitants of the plains and mountains which had produced some of the Empires most notable sons.

These soldiers, along with every other, now stood to the rear of the dismounted officers who gazed and gawked at the obstacle before them, more than half thinking that their Emperor must be mad.

Procopius, although less of a pessimist than his Thracian tribune, was not as mad as others seemed to believe he was. He had his doubts, strong ones, many about things which the others around him could not even begin to ponder on, but Victoria and Tyche – and no doubt Mithras as well - had handed him nothing but victories so far in his quest for dominion. Valens was kept out of the Asian provinces in the East, and now Valentinianus was within his grasp through a mistake of his own.

“No,” the Cilician thought to himself, droplets of moisture beginning to form on his scale corslet and plumed Attic helmet, “I have to keep going forward, to go back would only mean my doom. If there was a way back at all.”

Chatter had began to form itself amongst the assembled officers, and Procopius raised a hand for silence. Taking a deep breath, he sat as erect as he could astride his horse and gave his commands as an Emperor should, with confidence and supreme authority.

“The Illyricani and and Dalmatae will form up on the left, sweeping about towards the right. Our sagittarii will spread themselves wide and move up the centre. On the left will form the auxilia and limitanei, the cavalry kept with myself in reserve. Mark my words now, and listen closely. When battle is joined, there will be little I can do to control the ebb and flow of the field, it is up to each of you to secure your own section of the line and pacify the enemy. May the Gods be with you all.”

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

Flavius Valentinianus, Augustus of the Western Empire, sat atop his pure white mount and looked down as the enemy made their preparations for battle. Outnumbered he may be, and was, but his army was composed of veterans from his campaigns on the Rhenus and the Danuvius, each century of every legion composed of experienced soldiers and expert killers. Around him sat his candidati, their white tunics shining and unblemished, a stark contrast to the greys and greens of the Illyrian hill-lands, the laburum towering overhead with the effigy of Christ watching over his followers about to do battle.

“Your highness,” verbally nudged one of his tribunes, “the enemy seeks to encircle us, what are your orders?”

The Western Emperor, forty-one years of age and a great leader of men, so unlike his brother Valens, thought of the army he had bought into Illyricum in pursuit of the Attacotti. Six cohorts of his beloved legio palatinae, two cohorts of their auxilia opposites, three of sagittarii, near two-hundred vigiles and a spattering of assorted cavalry. Just over a thousand men in all, less than half that numbers of his enemy, but with more experience.

“Take the vigiles and a cohort of the Ioviani to counter his Illyrians, send the cavalry with them and bring the Herculiani over to the left flank. It is sheer and nearly impossible to climb there, and the Usurper would be a fool to try such a manoeuvre. Our archers shall remain in the centre and exchange fire with their own, our superiority in that arm counting for something.”

“As you wish, Augustus.”

In his mind, and deep in his bones, he knew that he had inadvertently led his men into a trap from which they may not escape. If they could break the enemy army, carve a path through them, or destroy one of their flanks, then it may be possible. If not...then he would be with his God in the afterlife.

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

Feet slid underfoot, the ground unstable and the plateau of the towering hill seemingly unreachable to the eyes of those who dared to look, the laboured breaths of men weighed down by arms and shields reaching Laenas' ears as he dragged his own cohort on with only his iron will and the motivation of his own example. Outwardly he was calm and stolid, his shield held ready and his spear snaking out before him in search of blood, but behind the disguise of his polished scale and iron helmet, its green plume waving uneasily in the potent wind, he could only concentrate on keeping his feet and driving up the side of the hill.

To his left and his right flew the banners of the limitanei cohorts, the auxilia with their oval shields and golden helmets made of bronze, and the soldiers of the frontier who rarely left their fortifications but had been dragged into this war whether they wished to fight or not. They were not bad soldiers, though some would disagree, even the recruits from barbaricum beyond the limes instilled with a sense of loyalty first and foremost to their Emperor, secondly to their cohort, and with all the skills and discipline required of a Roman soldier.

On his left side, right by his shoulder, he could hear prayers being muttered to the God which the Galileans considered to be the only one. He who spoke them in a hushed tone was a man known to his brothers-in-arms as 'The Bishop', a soldier nearly fifty years old, a legionnaire who had fought with Constantius against Julianus during his rebellion but was now part of a cohort where such things were forgotten. Nevertheless, his superstitious repetition of psalms and passages from his holy book began to annoy the tribune, who snapped at him to be silent and that when battle was joined he could then pray all he liked.

Laenas was not a man of faith, in fact religious quarrels aggravated him. He was a thoroughly pragmatic man who put his faith in the cool kiss of iron and the whispering death of the arrow, no divine retribution for killing and when death came for him he believed there would be nothing but eternal darkness. Some, his late wife included, taken by plague when his son was only a child, had chastised him for such a lack of belief in something larger and more powerful than himself. In a tone that tolerated no argument, he would reply that he had the Emperor for that and needed no-one and nothing else to fill a non-existent void in his life or soul.

As they continued the climb, the muscles in his legs screaming and feeling as though they were alight with flame, he began to hear the sound of voices coming from near the top of the flat-peaked hill. Not many at first, but the further he clambered the louder the got, and the more they multiplied. Very soon, though his ears were ever-so-slightly muffled by his helmet, he opened his eyes wide and realised what was happening.

“Shields up, heads down, push yourselves. Soldiers of Roma, to the peak!”

Javelins fell like a torrential rainstorm of metal and wood into the struggling line, men caught by the iron tips thrown back into their comrades behind, others then stumbling and falling and somehow the line continued to hold formation. Men raised their shields, the first line of protection against anything, whether sword, axe or spear, trying to keep their heads high enough to be able to see but so low that any missile would glance off of their helmet.

Behind Laenas a man screamed, throwing up his arms as a javelin plunged through his gullet in a spray of blood, his lifeless body tumbling back into another soldier. This soldier, a veteran old enough to have seen a few bodies in his time, simply grabbed the corpse by the collar of his tunic and bodily threw it from the dense press of men, where it rolled some more before coming to a mangled stop.

“Centurion,” breathed The Bishop, his eyes as wide as his superiors had been moments before, those two lenses of sight staring away up the slope. Very few men called Laenas by his former title any more, most only when they wished to get his attention. It transpired that this was one of those times.

Hurtling down the slope towards them were rank upon rank of infantry, horsemen mingled with them in their desire to get to grips with the enemy they all saw as worthless, the flurry of javelins ceasing now and leaving a trail of broken bodies, the 'O' of shouting mouths visible to the Thracian tribune as a cohort of legio palatinae came straight at him and his command.

“Stand, stand with me! You bastards, it is time to earn your pay.”

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

What was happening? Did he even know? Galloping scholae sent hither and thither hours ago to tell him what was happening. And the mist, this damn mist that had swept in all of a sudden on a mountain breeze, Procopius cursed it as a bad omen and continued to watch the somewhat fruitful efforts of his milites sagittarii in their pale yellow tunics and recurving bows. Those strings would become too damp to fire soon, and the Emperor, at least of the Balkans and westernmost Asia, was becoming impatient.

It was then that a horseman deigned to show himself, nearly barrelling into the Emperors bodyguard in his haste. His horse was completely blown, and the rider looked just as bad, the hem of his cloak and belly of his steed covered in mud and the yellow paint of his shield spattered with brown. Hurriedly he saluted, adjusting his plumed helmet, and placed a hand on his breastplate as he caught his breath.

“My Emperor,” he began with a wheeze, “the mountain men have dispersed your cousins right flank, but they are blocked from passing by a cohort of the Ioviani.”

“A single cohort?!” Laughed the Usurper, spreading his arms wide and looking to those around him, “half of my army break the enemy flank, and yet a single cohort impedes their progress?”

The horseman had nothing to say to this, his lips moving without any speech passing the fence of his teeth, Procopius asking him icily to continue but with a dark expression on his face.

“Our right flank holds, lord. Assailed by horse and by foot, cohorts of legionnaires and auxilia palatinae mostly. They stand, but for how long I cannot say.”

“I cannot allow them to fail,” came the voice in his head, his hand now rising to wipe moisture from his forehead, a wetness not caused by the drifting water vapour encompassing the entire valley, “go to them, you must go to them. Only with a figurehead that they may rally around can they achieve victory.”

It was an idea shared between the opposing Emperors, complete opposites and yet alike in more ways than either would care to admit. For high above the valley floor, his fair hair plastered to his forehead by the dense mass of mist, and a grave expression on his face, Valentinianus yelled for his own guard, his candidati, to follow him down his own left flank and into the melee which swung back and forth – unknowing that his enemy was even at that moment galloping, with a hundred and eighty-one horsemen hot at his horses hooves to relieve Laenas and the hard pressed infantry. Men that had sworn their lives to the cause of the Usurper and were now paying in blood.

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

Blinded, he was half blinded, the sweat of his brow merging with the fog to form a dripping mass which stung his eyes, and causing him to feel as if he were breathing a thick broth rather than air. As far as he knew his warriors were beside him, both sides, fighting as hard as he for their very survival against killers steeled in Germania and forged into weapons on the Danuvius. Constant blinking went some way to clearing his vision, but another spear tip hit his helmet and Laenas cursed in his native tongue, a tongue he used rarely accept in the presence of his own son.

Blood, piss, excrement, the sloping flank giving off the smell so familiar to those that knew battle and, if it could ever do, even providing some comfort to the sturdier veterans.

“Ach!” He grunted, lunging his shield forward as a counter-balance to regain his footing, inadvertently smashing his iron boss into the long snout of a very surprised horse. The beast reared up, the rider flailing, Laenas plunging his spear into the chest of the beast and cringing inwardly as it whinnied and collapsed onto its side, the leg of the screaming horseman trapped beneath its bleeding bulk.

Something about the rider made him stop, his eyes becoming little more than slits, picking out the crimson chi-rho symbol on the white field of the crippled horseman's shield. His armour, not that given to anyone, but a piece of art in itself, his spear and sword made by a master metalworker.

It all clicked.

“He is here!” Screamed the Thracian hoarsely, “Valentinianus is here, engage those cavalry,” his voice lifted over his men as it had over many parade-grounds and they responded instantly.

Locking their shields tightly once more, making sure each man was covered by his neighbour, the Rough Company shoved their way through the men about them. Friend or foe, they cleared a path, converging on the candidati and the very spot where Valentinianus clove apart the skull of another frontier soldier who would never return to his family, grey brain-matter hitting the face of the man next to him who prudently released his bladder as a piece touched his lips.

Valentinianus was not the only one of the Augusti on the hillside however, and a rippling cheer rose from the mouths of the predominantly Balkan-born men as the heroic figure of Procopius whipped about their flank and joined the conflict. Some men on the side of Procopius could not even believe it, some that it was a deception, but the stooped figure on his white horse could be no other than the Usurper, his flanks and rear covered by his ever-faithful scholae. Like a wave the army of Procopius began to swell, surging forward and straining against the confines of their enemy, pressuring every part of the line and beginning the barritus adopted from the Germanic adversaries of the Empire.

Spears and swords flashed, men died in droves, and the two Emperors clashed amidst their bodyguards and the ranks of their armies, each exchanging blows with the other in full view of the men under their command. First Valentinianus, his experience with a blade clear, would hammer strikes down on the shield of his hated enemy, Procopius swinging in a wide arc at the Pannonians bare head but missing by inches, the fight playing out and prayers rising from both sides to the old Gods and the new.

It was when nearly half an hour has elapsed, both sides exhausted but unable to cease their death-struggle, when whistling dragon heads rose as if from Hades on the left side of the hill. Behind them came men, as bloodied and torn as any still fighting, men in shirts of mail with simple and unadorned helmets, their shields of the old clipeus style red as the blood of their foes.

To one side these men were salvation, to another their doom, and to Valentinianus they would be death.

A distraction was all that was needed, and the arrival of the Illyrians and Dalmatian horsemen were more than enough. In a split moment, the sword of Procopius sought out the weak-point of his enemy and thrust home, shattering scale and plunging through muscle and tissue until it punctured organs and took the life from the Western Emperor.

Procopius did not even bother removing his sword, simply letting go of the hilt and grabbing the scale corslet in one strong hand, dragging the body of the former Augustus from his saddle and into the grime of mud and bodily fluids. This caused outrage to some, even amongst the ranks of the Usurper, but he could not care one ounce and proceeded to send the Illyrians to fight the rapidly breaking ranks of the Ioviani and Herculiani.

The battle was over.

[McScottish]

Chapter II: A Satisfactory Agreement (Autumn, 368 AD)

Bacurius Donatus, herald and messenger of Flavius Procopius Augustus to the northern tribes and Western half of the Empire, wrapped his thick cloak even tighter about him as his carriage rattled along the ill-kept road he now found himself on. He was a Syrian by birth, far more used to the warm and arid climates of the Mesopotamian deserts than the moisture and chill of the north, but he had not seen his homeland in nearly three decades and was unsure if he would even recognise it any more.

It was almost a year to the day that Procopius had slain the Augustus of the West in battle, his Excellency having since retired back to Constantinopolis, from where he oversaw every aspect and minutiae of his Balkan-based Empire. From taxation to new building projects, the raising of shrines dedicated to Hellenism and the upkeep of Christian churches, the organisation of limitanei cohorts and fortresses along the Danuvius frontier, and those in amongst the mountain passes of Moesia Primae and Dalmatia.

The head of Valentinianus, in the manner of an Emperor slaying a usurper, he had sent by swiftest post to the palace of his brother Valens. No doubt, as he well knew, this would provoke the fool – if he still lived, for no spies of Procopius had yet been able to locate the father of Valentinianus Galates – into sending his tribuni and their ill-trained soldiers against Araxius, that most fearsome of Christian Illyrians. Such attacks, if one could call them that, had been happening without respite for three years now, and the Emperor was becoming vexed at having to keep his forces spread between Galatia, Isauria and Paphlagonia to form an eastern frontier.

This was where Donatus' unique skills of diplomacy were required.

Some months ago, in early summer, a delegation of barbarians had made their way to Constantinopolis and requested an audience with 'the chieftain' of the Romans. Whilst Procopius was not yet Emperor of all the Roman world, his face was minted onto widespread coins and he was known both within and beyond the traditional borders set by successive predecessors to himself. These men, nobles and of good birth so it is said, were granted an audience with him in the Imperial Palace.

They told him that they came from a people known long to the Romans as Vandilii, a Germanic people split into two distinct groups who had been affected by religious conflict as much as the Empire, some continuing their ancestors 'pagan' legacy and others converting to the Arian form of worship which was once agreed to be the orthodox form of Christianity, before usurpation by the Nicene faith.

When Procopius asked what he could do for them, they plunged into a tale of perpetual warfare and starving refugees huddled inside the very last parcel of land left to them. It was far to the north, where once the Sicambri of Tacitus' age had dwelt, hemmed in by a pouring wave of Burgundiones from the east. These neighbours of the Vandals, sometimes allies of the Empire and sometimes enemies, had taken what land the Vandals possessed and the head of the deputation pleaded with the Usurper to send aid or to grant them safety in an Empire that was not his to rule. Not entirely, any way.

He sent them away, telling them that he would send a courier within the year to produce a treaty, and by autumn he had sent Donatus, his agent in the north, and the Vandals last hope.

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

The Vandal encampment of evenly-spaced tents and shelters loomed out of the woodland as the emissary, his balding head covered in a sheen of cold sweat, stiffly rose from his seat in the open-doored carriage and was helped from its leaning side by a man dressed in the uniform of the scholae. Eight such men travelled with him, escorting him through the Germanic wilds, each man trusted and prepared to give his life if the need arose, but all but two unable to stifle smirks and chuckles as one sandalled foot of the toga-wearing envoy readily planted itself in a medium pile of horse dung. These emotions wiped away from their faces as swiftly as the crap into which he had just stepped by the approach of twelve imposing Vandals, and one other who towered above them all.

“Greetings Roman,” rumbled the fair-haired giant, his glacial blue eyes glancing with interest over the diplomat and his guard, “I am Gento, son of Afric, champion of the Hasdingi, and I speak for all my people.”

All around Gento his own guard formed, six men on each side of their chosen voice, each clad in armour which would not have embarrassed a soldier of Rome, eight-foot spears tipped with jagged iron points held gently in their hands and shields covered with the plainest brown hide levelled to waist height.

Donatus studied them all with what he hoped was a non-aggressive look, intimidated by their height and muscular physiques, awed by the deep rumbling of their leaders voice and by the winged helmet he wore over his shoulder-length hair. His torso, covered by a grey cloak which was pinned at his shoulder by an ornate brooch, was crammed into a two-sided breastplate which seemed too small for the gargantuan Vandal, and that Donatus believed was likely to burst. On his legs he wore trousers, an item once considered barbaric, but now worn by most of the Roman military, and two iron greaves covered his shins.

On the other hand, Donatus wore nothing but his toga, the hems of the folded material now smeared with mud and worse things. In comparison to his barbarian opposite he was quite unimpressive, his hair having fallen out years ago to leave somewhat of a tonsure of greying hair, his head too large and round for his slender neck, like a ball atop a column, and his pinched mouth seemingly at odds with his large nose.

Taken somewhat aback by the fluency of the Vandals Latin, excusing the obvious defects and mutations of sounds caused by his thick Germanic accent, Donatus nonetheless was pleased that he would not need to attempt any of the phlegm-inducing speech of the Germans. As a man raised speaking a blend of Greek and Aramaic, he knew how hard foreign languages could be.

“I am Bacurius Donatus, envoy of Procopius Augustus, Emperor of all Rome, and have come to fulfil a treaty of accord with the Vandilii tribes in their hour of need.”

A snort came from one of the Vandals stood beside his chieftain, a man who looked the spitting image of Gento and whom Donatus assumed to be a brother or son. There was a slight bickering between he and the chosen speaker, before Gento turned to the Roman and opened his pale arms wide, the muscles of his limbs rippling beneath the skin, “what is it that you offer us, Roman? What, to help my people, would you suggest?”

“This should be interesting,” thought the Syrian, making a show of thinking and then whipping his head up as if he had just remembered something important. With a flurry and a gesture, one of the scholae came forward and handed an unravelled scrap of papyrus to the envoy. Donatus, beginning to feel nervous now, and conscious of how impatient barbarians were, took mere moments to feign reading over the memorised offers of his superior.

“My Emperor generously offers you these terms; safe passage for warriors and all others through the Empire, until you reach your new settlements. Lands to cultivate and farm in three provinces of Pontus, lands where you shall be free to live as you wish under the protection of Roman might. Lastly, a gift of coin to help smooth over any difficulties amongst your own people.”

“And what does your precious Emperor claim in return for this extended hand?”

“His Excellency wishes nothing more than your respect for the borders between our two peoples, for your own warriors to keep the Isaurians in order, and to help defend your own lands if the need should arise.”

Clearly Gento was no fool, he knew what he was getting his people into if he accepted the terms, his relative seemed to know it too from the frown on his face. Yet, with little other choice than to be slaughtered or made slaves of the Burgundii, Gento grunted his agreement and slashed his ink-black mark onto the papyrus.

“As a show of good will, I present my eldest son, Brunsgails, as a hostage to your King.”

There was no surprise to Donatus when the mirror-image of the large Vandal stepped from the ranks of the guard, an expression of supreme neutrality on his face, a younger but no less fearsome specimen than his father and with what seemed like a much more insular temper. Only his weapons and armour, both fit for a warriors son, did he bring with him and that was all he chose to take when the Romans left, riding his own horse which was more like a pony.

Gento announced that he would send word to his people, the scattered and the besieged, warriors and exiles, and then push south-east towards Thracia when they had gathered as many as could be found.

All knew they had been given a rather sore bargain, the Vandals in all that they must do for Rome, being nothing more than a buffer in the east, and the Romans in that they would need to keep careful control over the migrating barbarians.

Such things mattered little to Procopius though, sitting hundreds of miles away in his chambers of the palace, deep in thought over the problems of ruling. The only thing he needed to know, no matter how they got there or what resources would need to be used, was that he had wanted firm allies, and now he most assuredly had them.

[McScottish]

Chapter II: A Migration of the Masses, Part I (Summer, 369 AD)

Green and grey, green and grey, sometimes with a hint of blue if there was a river nearby or the sky ceased its raining or snowing for a rare moment.

Such were the bland colours of the landscape which Phronimius, praeses Moesia Secunda and magister officiorum, as well as patricius of the Emperor Procopius, was forced to gaze at day after day. To him lay the security and command of all military forces along the Moesian border, a natural boundary created by the mighty Danuvius, his headquarters a large fortress of timber and turf erected on the Imperial side of a stone bridge which crossed the river. Some, those that sat cosily in their chambers of the interior provinces perhaps, might believe that such a place would cause grave discomfort to a man of such high standing in the administration, but they could not have been more wrong.

From his frontier stronghold, rarely bothered by external concerns, the Greuthungi Goths on friendly terms with Procopius and his rebellion since the very beginning, the Gallic magister gathered the reports of his agentes in rebus and wielded without interruption the power of his political office; of course, there was much more to his life than that. Much more.

Only that spring he had been ordered by Augustus to send word and coin across the frontier, in order that masterless Goths, or those willing to fight for money, promptly presented themselves for military service under his banner. Many had, over a thousand, and were sent with full bellies and full purses to the western corner of the Balkan Empire which Procopius had managed to carve for himself after nearly five years of rebellion against the Pannonian brothers.

Now he looked down at the scrap of papyrus scroll in his hand, bought to him by a flagging courier not but an hour ago. It was not a long correspondence but merely a summary of the situation and what the Emperor wished of him and read thus;

“You are summoned to meet with Verenianus at lapideum pontem castellum. It will be the duty of you both to oversee the crossing of barbarian refugees from the lands of the Quadi, take whatever men you may need and bring them safely into Moesia Primae. Once this task is completed, send word to Jovius Horatius in Serdica. He is well aware of how to proceed.”

The message was followed by all the usual formal titles and the signature of Procopius himself, but Phronimius could not have been unhappier. Not least because he despised Verenianus. That young whelp was not only a Persian, a race not known for their loyalties, but also a devout servant of their wild religion in an Empire that did not want him or it. All the same, Phronimius had to admit, the Persian was politically as slick as an oiled whore, calm under pressure, and possibly more Roman than many Romans he had met in his long life.

For all his feelings of dislike, once does not just ignore a direct command from the Emperor. Therefore he would complete his mission, or lose his head.

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

Silence reigned over the Great Palace of Constantinopolis, residence of the Roman Augusti since the re-founding of the city by Constantinus and the largest nest of vipers and scheming rodents west of the Hellespont. On a normal day it would be filled with individuals and groups, factions and political foreplay, but on this day it was as if they had all been swept away or swallowed by the earth. Whilst this was not what had happened, the Emperor had ordered that all members of his court, except those that were most essential – cooks, palace guard, messengers and such – be dismissed for a number of days, that he may enjoy himself without the constant buzzing of their insidious voices in his ear.

He had never been one for ceremony or large gatherings, the usurper Augustus, preferring the company of a select few or of his own council. Rarely did he need much more than that, except for maybe the guidance of the Gods, blessed Mithras in particular, and it was no different on the shining summer day that now presented itself to him in all its illuminated splendour. When he looked from his royal chamber he could see the waves bobbing ships in the harbour, smell the sea-salt and the fish of sellers near the sea, a hundred different voices, languages and dialects reaching him as he stood well removed above those that he ruled. Able to think, to gather his thoughts and process them clearly.

Since his ascension four years ago, slowly winding to five, he had made little progress in expanding his possessions. Not that this mattered to him; he now controlled the martial 'bread basket' of Thrace, Epirus, the two Moesian provinces, and Illyria – not to mention Greece, the diocese of Asiana, and the islands of Crete and Rhodes. Fighting men flocked to his banners, Goths were drawn from across the limes, and each day his military might grew stronger. Let his adversaries say what they would about the slayer of Valentinianus, but he knew the soldiers had put him on his throne and was always aware that they could just as easily toss him aside. Nor was the Cilician inept at the games of politics and the governance of an Empire in miniature, defending his borders, making sure that taxes were paid as they should be, that religious tolerance was observed across his domain, and that corruption within his borders were kept to the least.

Here in Nova Roma Constantinopolitana at least, in the 'new Rome', Procopius was one with the Gods.

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

Age and good living in the oriens had made the elderly African stouter than he would have liked, his stomach jiggling most annoyingly beneath his dark tunic as he rode, and the sunlight slowly and painfully burning the top of his bald head. At one-and-sixty years old he was well past his prime, considered old and close to death in years but as hale and hearty now as he had been when he was a younger man. Although he could have been carried in a litter, or seated in a carriage, the comes Pontus was a soldier first and a lazy servant of the state only second, having fought beside his friend and ally Araxius on the Eastern frontier for the last three years.

Now he approached the Great Palace, dabbing at his forehead with the edges of his grey woollen cloak, his blue eyes shielded by a large hand as he peered at the rising walls and pristine stone from which the gargantuan structure was built. With him came only two others, his personal librarian and a tribune of one of the many cohorts made these days of retired soldiers returning to service under the highest bidder. Both of the latter rode to his rear, neither the equal of a personal friend of the Emperors, one of the select few given the honour of being named patricius, laurels usually reserved only for those that had served Procopius since he burst from hiding and began his righteous revolt alone against both halves of the Roman world.

Riding beneath a large portico and ever closer to the palace, the only sound this far from the cities streets being the breathing of he and his, and the clopping of hooves as they hit expertly placed stone, he was saluted by two soldiers bearing the symbols of the Celtae Seniores on their bright yellow shields. It was not required that he return the salute, but he did so anyway, his round face, usually so grim, even managing a smile for once in his life.

Minutes later and the trio were sitting before the doors of the Imperial residence, even the librarian gifted with a horse for the journey, Rumitalca and his retinue having been summoned from Galatia weeks ago but only arriving more recently. Now they dismounted and waited, four soldiers staring blankly ahead, a fifth taking off with all speed into the palace and returning moments later with none other but the Emperor himself strolling beside him, the most powerful man in his part of the Empire clearly sat in waiting for the Africans arrival for some time.

On his heels, like a shadow split in twain, yet keeping a respectable distance from their higher-than-mortal ruler, followed two others that Rumitalca squinted to see clearly.

The first was tall, taller than most men that the African had ever seen, his hair the colour of dampened straw, his eyes the colour of the sky and ever watchful beneath a pair of furrowed brows, and his wide mouth set in a grave expression below a straight nose and above a squared jawline peppered with the first sprouting of what could one day be a magnificent golden beard. It also was clear from the garb he wore that he was no Roman; his clothing was that of a barbarian, trousers of animal hide wrapped about the legs and bound about the ankles with lashes of leather, no Roman-made tunic on his torso but one of crimson colour and edged in silver designs with sleeves that touched the wrists and a lower hem that touched the thighs, clinched in at the waist by a thick belt and golden buckle. To finish it all, the helmet in one hand, two hinged cheek-pieces dangling from the sides and a plume of black horse-hair flowing from a rising top. No weapons did he carry, but for a large knife, which would be known later as the seax, on his waist.

Although more shrouded in shadow, the second figure was far easier to identify, bearing an exceptionally close likeness to the Augustus - who this day clothed himself in a cloak of saffron from Corycus, an island just off of the coast of Cilicia, instead of the royal purple, made of goats hair which was called cilicium by the Romans - which could mark him as nothing but a blood relation.

Younger he most certainly was, but at the age of only ten-and-five years Flavius Sebastianus was already as tall as and the spitting image of his father. Though he had not yet developed the muscle and broad shoulders of his father, he retained the almost permanently bronzed complexion, strong jawline and deep hazel eyes bought forth by his Asiatic heritage. Unlike his father, who looked always contemplative and carried himself with a noble bearing, his offspring walked with an almost shuffling gait and his mouth kept narrow and tight on his face. This day he wore a simple tunic of crimson, bordered at the collar and hems by intricate stitching, and against his chest softly thumped an iron crucifix as he walked, the son of the evil pagan usurper living more in the ways of his ancestor Constantinus than his immediate predecessor Julianus.

“My old friend!” Beamed Procopius as soon as he came within reach of the magister militum, throwing his cloak back and his arms wide to embrace his companion. Rumitalca returned the embrace with a friendly squeeze and a masculine slap on the back, his strength not so gone at three-and-sixty years that he could not still exert as much pressure on his Emperor as the other way around.

“It does me well to see you again, Augustus. You will no doubt know that Araxius keeps our eastern borders safe, but I am puzzled as to why you call me here. Surely I would be more help alongside my eagle-taking friend?”

Procopius shook his head, gesturing for both of the pair trailing him to step up beside him, taking one finger and pointing it meaningfully at the more barbaric of the two. “This is the reason I called you here,” he spoke playfully, “to speak of barbarians and how they might benefit the Empire.”

Greying brows rose at this, the veteran commander of cavalry taking in the hostage from beyond the frontier. Slowly, almost flippantly, he placed his broad hands on his hips and gave a small shake of his head, his cheeks moving like a canines jowls, “please, by Mars and Jupiter, tell me you have not done as I think you have?” When Procopius smiled and gave a small nod he could only sigh in exasperation.

“This stout individual is Brunsgails, son of Gento, and cousin to the King of the Hasdingi. The Burgundiones take their lands, the Franci moving in from the north-west, and Thrasamund, Rex Vandalorum is nowhere to be seen. Some say he is dead, some that he plots his return.”

“My lord...” protested the African, bringing his hands up as if to ward away the voiceless giant.

“No, do not speak. Allow me. I have already made a treaty to ensure the survival of his people, as vassals and settled farmers in Asia. They will have Galatia, Isauria and Paphalagonia.”

The two men that Rumitalca had bought with him glanced uneasily at one-another, the man himself speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. When words did find him, they were not the positive words that Procopius had been expecting, but promises of death and doom. He proclaimed loudly that the Emperor clearly did not realise how many men it would take to guard a nation on the march, ensure that they did not revolt halfway through Thracia, and how much time, effort and resources would be needed to supply them until they got over the Hellespont and into their new homeland. All this was watched by Brunsgails, who seemed to have been forgotten by the paunched Romano-African, his clear eyes flickering with contained amusement.

“My people have given their word,” came a rumbling statement in heavily accented Latin, “you give us a new land to farm, protection until we have settled ourselves, and in return we shall defend you from your enemies. Inside and out.”

“You see!” Laughed Procopius, smiling again, “there is nothing to worry about.”

Slipping in closer to Rumitalca, perhaps the most loyal of all his chosen few, he put an arm around him, “there is no other person I could think of to make this a reality, no-one else but my firmest comrade, to see that they reach their allotted destination. So, I have chosen you.”

If looks could kill then Procopius may well have been assassinated on the very spot where he stood.

[Diocle]

McScott! This is pure awesome epicness, this is Homer, this is.....is......is...one of the greatest Usurping Tale of the History of Mankind! The blade....McScott! The blaaaaaaade! Wondeefuuuuuuuuuulllllllllllll!!!

Look this is pure awesomeness!

..the sword of Procopius sought out the weak-point of his enemy and thrust home, shattering scale and plunging through muscle and tissue until it punctured organs and took the life from the Western Emperor.

Procopius did not even bother removing his sword, simply letting go of the hilt and grabbing the scale corslet in one strong hand, dragging the body of the former Augustus from his saddle and into the grime of mud and bodily fluids.

Kill the Mafia Brothers!!!

+REP!!!!!

.

[Schrödinger]

Well, wow! I was told that would be immersive and the depth you've written with is astounding genuinely excited to have read it all and now to be able to follow this, keep it up

[McScottish]

McScott! This is pure awesome epicness, this is Homer, this is.....is......is...one of the greatest Usurping Tale of the History of Mankind! The blade....McScott! The blaaaaaaade! Wondeefuuuuuuuuuulllllllllllll!!!

Look this is pure awesomeness!

Kill the Mafia Brothers!!!

+REP!!!!!

.

First Tolkien, now Homer...who shall I be compared to next?

My most heartfelt thanks to you, Diocle. You are truly a man among men, and one of you equals any number of readers (in my personal opinion anyway). The Mafia Brothers (I like the name btw ) shall pay their due, in time. Procopius shall rise, like Julianus anew, and wipe them from the face of the planet.

Well, wow! I was told that would be immersive and the depth you've written with is astounding genuinely excited to have read it all and now to be able to follow this, keep it up

I shall do my very utmost, for you and for your feline companion!

[McScottish]

It is with great regret that I must (until I can find a way around it) announce the 'death' of this AAR. After purchasing a new PC and installing everything, it seems like SAI does not want to play ball, and therefore I am closing down this AAR for the foreseeable future. It is a great shame, and saddens me greatly, but once I've sorted everything out I shall endeavour to bring it back stronger than ever if I can.

Thank you for the support, and I hope you'll give the same to any other AAR that I should begin.

Slainte mhathe,

McScottish