Vandalarius: The One Sword of The Romano-Gothic Empire [COMPLETED]- Updated May 24th '19

**Lugotorix** · April 15, 2016, 05:59 PM

Major Spoiler Alert- I intend to PS a Infographic of all these houses and how they interact with each other. The Dynasties and Political Parties of the Romano-Gothic Empire

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

**Lugotorix** · April 15, 2016, 09:33 PM

Part V: The Military Rising

Arch of Theodosius and Honorius in Tarentum

Witigis’ Campaign

The trip across the seas in 460 had my stomach turning. I longed for the landing, so I could finally hold down some water and bread. A sober man, I rarely partook in liquor or wine, and I took this as a blessing seeing how sick many others on the boat were from the night before partying in the docks. I was chartered on a vessel called the Nymphaius. Within my quarters, in the hull of the ship, I read through the instructions of my master Cniva. Most of the soldiers accompanying me on this or other ships could not read the lord’s latin, but I was the apprentice of a stone-mason, and Avidius had taught me many scholarly things, and had often massaged my pride by saying I was more apt to learning than other boys. Cniva told me that he would be joining me should the fortunes improve back in the Kingdom of Tarragon. At the moment, they were not looking good, a cause for much tension between the Queen Regent and Witigis.

The arrogant Prince, now my commander, sought glory, and the reclamation of Italy, while affairs at home soured. Rotomagus, Turonum, Paris, all victims to the swelling numbers of the Irish who not only crossed at the channel to Britain, but at every delta on the coast of Aquitaine and Armorica, even into Britanny which was theirs now as well. The numbers of the Irish were swelled by the Romano-Britons, and Picts, so that when the riders returned south from yet another town lost, in a seemingly unending series, the numbers of the enemy could never be accurately judged. There had been no declaration of war, no Ri Vosenios or Lugotorix to appease, just the enmity that existed between their expatriates under Ard Ri Epillos and the lust for plunder.

Vandalarius had given instructions to his subordinate Widin for the defense of Bordeaux, but had been recalled by the Queen to Pamplona, which would give him time to visit his young son Sarus, born to Sunilda, a year before. He would spend most of his time, bowing on one knee, with his hands to his forehead, as if stricken, before the altar in Tarragon. He participated in the pastoral gaiety, but mostly could be heard mumbling his thanks in Latin for delivering Valdamerca from the fall of God’s city, back to Tarragon, and the savior of his men who had just barely triumphed over Sabuccius.

He gave thanks for the defeat of the Huns, their last breath spit in spite at Bordeaux, and now against the heathen Maurians. Yet despite his piousness, and disdain for all idolatry, he had one gift for me before I left for the pagan isles, to soothe my wavering loyalty, which approving of my deployment had, truth be told, already accomplished.

‘ You are the son of a king, but a smaller king than to your young charge Chintila, so I grant to you a diadem, so that you never forget what is expected of you, as a lord, even while you serve.’ Vandalarius had said. Chintila showed the signs of instability early in his life. I would watch the boy, when the Princess was away, and he would wet his bed-linens, and cry, all signs of an unsound mind, despite being pampered, but it was not until I saw him taking live lobsters out of their barrel, that my suspicions, and they were mundane, were confirmed. This child was a true heir of Vithericus, just as unstable and sadist.

I saw the boy before I left for Italy, and he mumbled the words in his tight shrill babies verbal, ‘Give this to daddy.’ It was the skull of a Red squirrel, no doubt plied from the dung pellet of an Owl. Charming. I would give the skull to Witigis. It might even convince him that there was room for one more inheritor of this, Chintila’s new realm.

I wore the diadem at formal occasions, but when it began to attract superstation, I instead fixed it to the harness of my horse Sturmwesson. I worried for the horses safety on the transports that carried all of the other spooked horses to the shores of Naples, and beyond, Tarento, recently conquered by Witigis. Structus Peltrasius was forced to switch sides in the war, and Italy was subservient to the Duccians no longer.

My master in the military, Saione Cniva, it turned out was born and raised in Tarento, then called Tarentum, before colloquial language had taken hold. He had an estate there, and it was there that I would stay, surrounding myself with Romans, and weed out any insurrection, or raids by seafaring belligerents upon our base at Reggio.

I made my way to the estate upon landing in Naples, on my horse, and found it to be no more than a two story barn, albeit with many acres of surrounding land. This was the estate called Antilium, no doubt taken from some Roman in the days of the Empire, under Eutharic the Resentful.

It had a stable for Sturmwesson, and I patted him, feeding him a turnip, before I made my way to my mattress on the second story of the barn, grain bags filled with hay, and collapsed into sleep. The Apulians greeted me when I awoke, and treated me to a breakfast of quail eggs and asparagus, which I wolfed down with some bread, and a whisk of water from my canteen.

The owner of the estate was surprised when I decided to renovate the barn with stone foundations, and turn it into a base for assembly of locals. I began hiring construction workers, rather than soldiers with the allowance Cniva had given me. After days of working with saws and stone, ramps, pulleys and levies, men were more inclined to fight with one another. Witigis would be on the march north soon.

Before he did, he convened a meeting at Antilium outside of his capital within the walls of Tarentum. I was honored to have him as my guest, until I learned the reason for the assembly. Now that the Bear-Sons of Trapstila were in Italy, an envoy of the Bastarnian king Witiza had been sent to ask for peace, and Witigis wanted a convenient place for his undoubtedly rude answer. Another general was to be my superior in the campaign, a man very devoted to the cause, an Ardabastus, who did much of the work putting down any brigands that still had illusions about Duccian power in Italy. Or restoring Peltrasius to power.

The Burgundians had remained in their alliance with the Bastarnians, though the Huns were almost snuffed out, and it was a Gothic servant of the Burgundians, a diplomat, a woman, Amalasuintha, who plied for peace to Witigis, Structus Peltrasius, Ardabastus and I. It seemed, she already had a history with Witigis from the time when our two peoples were at peace and then war. She was one of the first Goths he had met, and he had been quite kind to her when she was in his service. This old flame meant none of the negotiations would be serious. They discussed their history, laughing, pounding their fists, speaking of the barbarity of Witiza King and his general Savva with their falxes, and I only became more lively and less depressed, staying away from the intoxicating main floor, and talking with those soldiers who had just been married, rather than those who had for some time and were already enjoying the camp-followers of the campaign.

Witigis, free of the watchful eye of his wife, brought his two favorite ancilliaries to dine with us at my lodge. A Berber Minx named Vermina, and a slave girl named Eofrith, a lovely flaxen and pale woman taken from the Jutes we had slaughtered in the days after the death of my father. Needless to say, I did not approve of her company, that is, until Vermina began rubbing my chest and shoulders with oils.

Structus Peltrasius was wary, but seemed to be enjoying the dancers and the event, that for Christians, had turned into a thoroughly debauched affair. As I mentioned, many of Witigis men were pagans from Caralis, and didn’t hold the churches teachings tightly. Only Ardabastus was respectful to his vows to his Gothic wife, out of the many camp followers.

I excused myself from Vermina’s company, and invited Vinthiaris, the male companion of Amalasuintha to join me in my quarters.
He was quite drunk by the time he sat himself at the table in the loft. He began examining papers. ‘Very proper.’ He remarked in Latin. ‘These are the names of the Romans who serve your master here in Apulia still. It is for this reason my lord Witiza is feeling so generous to offer the olive branch.’

‘Yes Vinthiaris, but Witigis will take the olive branch and more. His Princess in not here, and a woman of your ladies background needs nothing less than ‘rescuing’ in Witigis high eyes.’ I said softly.

‘These are all loyal men. Loyal to the death. Half of them will be dead by the time we enter Mediolanum, half of them are dead already.’ I continued, frowning.
‘That man, the one you’re tracing your hand over in narcissism. Vincent of Beneventum. He was loyal to lord Cniva. He has much in common with you. Same hair color, same eye color, and he was loyal. So loyal that he gave his legacy away at the battle of the Tiber against the Burgundians. He spoke Latin. Yours isn’t bad.’ I said, going through the motions.

‘Pardon me, my boy Odotheus, what business would the Italians and Goths have in our capital after tonight.’ The man slurred.
‘Witigis will be making a new possession tonight. He’ll want to check in on her.’ I said apologetically running my fingers through the downy hair on my short-cropped head.

Vinthiaris was sitting too close to the open doorway, not watching it. A soldier raised his sword above the clavicle artery of the diplomat. ‘Now, Odotheus.’ He whispered.
‘That won’t be necessary, a case of mistaken identity. This man, Vincent of Beneventum will be marching with my master Cniva’s men on Milan.’
The soldier gave me a strange look. The drunk diplomat hadn’t noticed his impending mortality until now, and his eyes were wide, and then turned to me, a bit cross.

‘You will be marching with our army on Milan, Vincent. I expect you to settle there and look after our kind lady Amalasuintha when you arrive there.’ I repeated.
He fidgeted. ‘Yes. Thank you. She truly is a kind lady.’ He said queasily.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of. Kindly leave by the ladder by that window and not the stairs. Ride for the barracks and tell them you’re a stable-hand of Avidius. I’ll keep you in my ledger, sir with the legacy of Vincent.’ I answered morosely.

My orders by Witigis and Structus Peltrasius were to kill Vinthiaris and dump him in the waves not far from the tempest. It was a reasonable last night on the earth, drinking brandy and rolling with the Gaetulian Minx Vermina, as he had done earlier that night, but I would do no such thing. Allies could be made by sparing them. Vincent of Beneventum had perished under Trapstilicus at the Tiber fighting my people in revenge for the death of Fredebal the heir.

Just as I had expected, in infidelity Witigis had seduced Amalasuintha, first by softening her with the poisons of the Berber Minx and Eofrith, whispering honeyed promises and boasting of Witigis’ generosity and prowess, and then by frankly telling her that the negotiations had failed due to the arrogance of Vinthiaris, who she had already confessed she considered a barbarian and that she was welcome to spend the night with he, Witigis, and enjoy the bounties of a truly civilized people.

In the morning, I kicked Vermina from my bed. I must have been the fourth man she had kissed that night. I watched with disgust as a near nude Amalasuintha was told to await his return to her in Milan. He had seduced her entirely and convinced her he would be coming for her. He would be coming for the city, to give to his son, Chintila, when he was old enough. And to put her master, King Witiza, Savva and all the rest of the Bastarnians, to the sword.
Before lord Witigis left my estate, I told him that contained within Cniva’s instructions for me from home, it was Valdamerca’s wish to bring him into her house. She had no sons, and her marriage with Ataulf had been far too short to bear any.

He immediately supposed it was a power play, to put young Chintila in the house of Trapstilicus and his Romans, who served the other camp of the military, under Vandalarius.

He had a counter offer, my master, Cniva, would be adopted into his house, to make up for the insult to him which he would rebuke. He asked me to take this demand down, and send it by letter back across the Tyrrhenian. And thus, I Odotheus, the son of another King, one before her, would belong to him. He demanded an apology. He also requested that Widin, the man of Vandalarius, join him in his reclamation of Italy.

I wrote these heavy demands with hesitancy. The last thing a messenger wanted to be killed doing was delivering bad news to the Queen. I wanted to ingratiate myself with the warlord though, so I did as I was told. ‘Bring that warhorse of yours in my march north.’ He told me when I had finished writing. ‘We’ll have need of a mason in Rome.’

‘Thank you, Lord Witigis.’ I answered.

‘Don’t get too giddy, boy, We’ll also need idiot arrow fodder like that diplomat of yours, Odotheus. Worry, not, my son to be Cniva would never allow it.’

'That reminds me. My lord, your son has given me a gift for you.' I reached into my pocket and produced the polished squirrel's skull, in it's foul anchor.

'You're not the only artisan in the family. He's a sculptor of the Hun's pet Witiza already.' He laughed mightily.

**Alwyn** · April 23, 2016, 04:13 AM

It sounds like the Romano-Gothic empire is threatened by the Irish (and the Romano-British and Picts) in the north and by internal intrigue involving the different dynasties. As I have not played Attila, I do not understand what is happening in the screenshot headed 'Rejection' involving Witigis (was Witigis rejecting being adoped or was someone rejecting being adopted by Witigis, or did I miss the point completely?) or the choice between 'Whatever It Takes' and 'Power Abuse' in the following screenshot - maybe 'Whatever It Takes' is linked to the orders to kill Vinthiaris?

**Lugotorix** · April 23, 2016, 07:28 PM

Originally Posted by Alwyn

It sounds like the Romano-Gothic empire is threatened by the Irish (and the Romano-British and Picts) in the north and by internal intrigue involving the different dynasties. As I have not played Attila, I do not understand what is happening in the screenshot headed 'Rejection' involving Witigis (was Witigis rejecting being adoped or was someone rejecting being adopted by Witigis, or did I miss the point completely?) or the choice between 'Whatever It Takes' and 'Power Abuse' in the following screenshot - maybe 'Whatever It Takes' is linked to the orders to kill Vinthiaris?

In the second screen, Witigis is interfering with Valdamerca's attempt to 'gain support.' It's a political action that increasing your nobles standing in a dynamic that weighs your families influence versus total influence in the faction. At this time, it was getting too low, because Valdamerca was a regent, not a general. If your families power gets too low, it can have negative affects like a decrease in loyalty that can lead to civil war, decreased tax rate etc.

If it gets too high, that has benefits and draws from it as well. 'Enemies in High Places.' will typically happen with 'other nobles.' or people who have married into your family tree as opposed to being part of it. They'll also try to blackmail your characters which gives them the 'out of favor.' traits and so on. Repeat offenders can be bribed, silenced, or have their loyalty increased. The screen of Witigis' adoption is the only one I could find from two years and three ranks earlier in Witigis' history. I think he both declined adoption when I was having an 'other nobles.' glitch and also had Cniva decline it one time, which is the screen. When the adoption fails, it doesn't list the character targeted and you lose influence. It's mainly for story telling purposes, that Valdamerca was attempting to 'gain support.' by enlisting Witigis (which she kind of did) Story point being that he's interfering with her and her step-brother's rule, because he's gotten new freedom on campaign in Italy and with the marriage to Chlotsuintha. Hope that's a good explanation. Thanks for the feedback!

**Alwyn** · April 24, 2016, 04:20 AM

Ah, I see - yes, that's a good explanation, thank you!

**Lugotorix** · April 25, 2016, 05:01 AM

Gardingus Odotheus and The Pious General Vandalarius

461-464 A.D.

Part I

The Taming of Magna Graecia and the Sword of Theoderic

Fall 463 A.D.

The Fall of Gaul to the Irish Celtic Axis is not a Pretty Affair- The Sword of Theoderic must be Reclaimed

Fealty to Valdamerca. Fealty to the military. All oaths of Filimer the Exile forsaken for a life on the horse, with my bannermen, and the servants of Avidius from Tarragon. And most scorning, an oath to the child Chintila. Survival depended on this, and more. The bravery to free myself of all of these commitments but the one to the military and our King, if I could advance and survive long enough, keeping my honor.

I was not born a leader. For most of my career, I served as a gardingus, which were inferior in rank to even the comites, and served no governmental role, as the saiones did. I could murmur in the ear of my superiors, and condescend even the little king Chintila himself, but with no office in the Kingdom, my words were empty, and only my actions would speak.

Witigis had not expected my trial by fire would lead to anything, so he took no notice, when I signed the oath of fidelitas to the high commander of the military Vandalarius, and his queen regent Valdamerca. It was loyalty, to expected above all others on a horse, and in battle. I would learn the terrible strains of war soon enough, putting down the rebellions that broke out near Reggio and Tarento in the absence of Witigis’ army. I saw it’s withering effect on weaker minds, but to tell truth, I saw the only deliverance from battle through elevation in military rank. To do that, I would need to get my hands cut, and I would need the men to see me do it.

In 461 A.D. the armies of Witigis the Burgundian were marching north to take Milano from the Bastarnians. While there, the dog would sire a bastard with Amalasuintha, and name him Theoderic, in a token gesture to the general Vandalarius, who had one infant at home, Sarus. Perhaps it was mere mention that Theoderic the Giant was of no noble birth, and that the Taifali might as well be sired by the horses of the steppe.

Witigis was a siege expert and had in his company Vandalarius’ man Widin, and I expected his success, but I was left behind with Roderic to bloodily contend with the Italians who wanted to seize enough power from Witigis to get something in return for relinquishing it when he returned from pacifying the north.

The most powerful of these brigands was a merchant named Sextus Valens Vitruvius. A creature of greed, he had made a habit of raiding our roads, rather than mustering a large enough force to attempt to take Calabria, so myself and my men, along with Comites Lycurgus Luca who had joined me across the sea, constructed a ruse, dressed in merchants tunics and gilded necklaces, carrying a transport vault of what looked like valuable cargo, but contained only better armored men. I made a personal statement to meet him at his ambush and bring him either to a knee or his death. It was a safe bet, with all of the Sagitarii, dressed as coach guards paid well by me, to take him down with an arrow, should he best me. What I hadn’t counted on, and was later told, was that he was trained in some of the best sword schools of Tarento, and was very quick with his longsword and he put me to the task before one of my men interfered and feathered him with arrows. I had thought I was dying, there was so much blood. But one of my fellow gardingi brought me to Sturmwesson, and told me he’d seen worse not even send a man to the chirugeon. The rebels were drawn into the attack on the caravan and put down, as I wallowed in my pain.

Now, in the late Fall of 443, at Cniva’s estate at Antillium, I nursed the cut along the left edge of my lips, that ran across my cheek. In my fever and pain, my tongue had torn the stitches from the wound, but my cheek did not sag and the muscles were not damaged, and what was now a red fold where the stitches had been, would soon be a long white distinguished smirk drawn from the edge of my lips to my jaw. The bloody Roman had done me a favor: I had healed well and wounds to the face were rarely survived, and the show of battle inspired and sense of bonding with the men. Gaetulians and Abasgian raiders would be visiting Naples soon. I had to have my men in the shape to put them down. Antillium was turned into an assembly for fighters in the Marian style of warfare.

I had offered clemency for the survivors of the rebellion, so that they may better serve Lycurgus Luca who was made governor of Tarento. They would serve in the quarries, bringing marble to Antillium and work on the construction project I had ordered there. I aimed to turn my lodging into a barracks, so that I would live amongst the men and they would know me better than their mothers, most of whom were across the pagans isles and the sea.

Vosenios, Ard Ri of Ulaid

The situation for the general Vandalarius and his psalm pages was deteriorating. Faith could not buy conscripts in a land overrun by pagan Celts who had been baptized not in the holy water of John, but the rugged coastal spray of Lir. A Pictish warlord named Senodios had joined with Illiatos the Irish follower of the two kings of the Riada Ulaid, the Ard Ri Vosenios and lesser king Daccios.

The Irish encircled Bordeaux with their navy, it was a tough decision, leaving the defenders to die with their honor, but Bordeaux too was abandoned, so that we could concentrate our forces in the Kingdom of Tarragon. It was easier to defend than attack, against the many of the Celtic invasion.

The point of defense was made at the crossing of the Pyrenees.

Forts were set up in the mountain passes, with watchtowers that overlooked the Iberian highlands for signs of Celts. Illiatos was the first to make this breach, and march on Pamplona, which he managed to sack, before being confronted by Vandalarius and defeated. There in the high elevation and snow, Vandalarius would defeat Illiatos, and instead of ransoming the captured Irish Fianna, perhaps in return he would hold him for information at the mercy of cruel Valdamerca. She soon notified Vandalarius that his father’s lost sword, that had been pried from the cold hands of Filimer but the Jutish bounty hunters and their Pictish masters, was still in the hands of the Picts, Senodios’ hands.

An spy and ragpicker named Sigeric was instructed to retrieve the sword from Senodios, in the same manner it had been taken from Filimer the Exile. Vandalarius would first sally on his white horse from Zaragoza, and meet this Senodios in battle. It was a ritual of the Taifali. As with slaying the Ursus, a man must defeat the holder of a weapon to claim it as his own. So Vandalarius put all of his efforts to retrieving his birthright.

This gave his a new fervor in his training with his wounded arm, and he began training to use a longsword upon his white stallion, using his crippled arm as a brace and dead weight to bring the sword down from his mount, weighted as a two handed sword such as his father’s. Few men could fight like Vandalarius, a master of his lessons learned in a long military career leading from the front. Never would the sword leave the hands of the line of Theoderic again, he swore to the heavens, and he doubled his training. He was still quite young for his rank, usually reserved for elders, and his faith in Christ made him unflinching on the battlefield. The pagan invaders would meet steel, and Illiatos’ capture was not the last of many clashes along the border. All of Gaul had fell to the axis of Celtic and Briton powers, and only our Caledonian allies, settled in the east of Lugdunensis gave a sense of order in the overrun frontier.

The Huns under Turul made one land attempt to breach the kingdom, and were crushed by the combined armies of Cniva, my master, and Vandalarius. Hermanafrid was lost in the chaos that rolled over the outer defenses. We lost many cavalry on that day, but the Huns had been relegated to history, and without a centralized warlord like Attila or Avarius, they would fade back to the lands of their old camps in Gepid territory, and the steppes, which were host to the Slavs and much prouder untamed and unbent Bulgars.

Vandalarius, as commander of the military, had diplomatic duties as well, now that Witigis was on campaign in Liguria. He was recalled to Tarragon to meet with the queen, concerning Witigis’ arrogant moves, his wife’s support of the quixotic quest for her son’s inheritance, and the war to come.

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TARRAGON

Valdamerca wore her purple dress, reclined on a couch. Wine and grapes were on the table. Valdamerca was reaching her older years. She had never married again. She kept to her palace, infatuated with her strongest general, and losing patience with Witigis’ defiance of her will across the sea in Italy. Witigis grew bolder with his victory at Milano. He made good on his promises to the two-timing Gothic emissary of the Bastarnians, and treated her like a concubine in his new land. Chlotsuintha would speak of the greatness of the reclamation of Italy by her gallant husband, knowing nothing of his infidelities, and the promise seen in young Chintila. Her guards waved the general Vandalarius in.

‘High Commander. Brother.’ She rose from the couch and hugged him tightly, kissing him on the lips. He adverted his head, his eyes cast down. ‘Regent.’ He said curtly. ‘Illiatos of the Ebdani suffers under your vise as if he has already met the evil one, and has led us to the locations of the remaining armies of Vosenios, who holds no honor for the marriages and sacrifices of yore. The Celt will have an uphill battle to reach our encampment in the foothills of the Pyrenees to the south of Bordeaux.’

‘I had the pagan racked for you, brother. I will do far worse to Vosenios the Hibernian.’

‘You do well to keep this secret from the people who adore you. Keep it from Marius, who thinks you tamed by his nation. Keep it from Rome, when our servant Odotheus rebuilds the city. Fore you cannot keep it from cunning boys like Odotheus.’ Vandalarius replied. He knew what she would ask of him, upon this meeting.

‘You don’t adore your queen, brother?’ She teased, but he did not smile.

‘I know what you are. The errant prince Witigis knows what we both are. And soon Chintila and my son Sarus will be bright enough to know what the three of us are.’
‘My servants and I, what else.’ She said smiling, trying to dismiss the issue.

‘A mockery of the Trinity, Valdamerca, an idol auric in its luster to the people, and their ideas of better scraping to it. A tangled web. Witigis has his Princess and his ambition. He even has a son by another woman. I’ll chastise him with my success against the Celtic hordes. I have the true God, and you have your power.’

‘But no sons, and growing barren, while you sired lowly Sarus.’ She looked at him with a tinge of madness in her eyes.

Vandalarius knew what she was edging towards. She had asked to lay with him before. His body yearned for it with every fiber. She was beautiful, and he would often have to sit down in her company when she tried to seduce him. But he repeated the same line he had rehearsed a thousand times to keep himself strong and fidelic‘ Your brother by law Filimer was king. His son Odotheus has his razor wits, and so when he writes the histories with his good penmanship he will write it as nothing further glossed.’ Your husband Ataulf died honorably against the Huns. Turul is the last Hun who will ever threaten our lands, and Ataulf has thanks in the memory of the people for this.’
She brought his head closer, and kissed him. ‘Have you already forgotten your lustful daydreams on when you still had youth? I’m not old yet.’ She asked.

‘ I have not forgotten. I desired you and your shining body as you bathed more than the promise of paradise, and so seeded plots with Lucifer and sold my soul for the sword arm to survive long enough to know your kiss again, to lose myself in your eyes and become a beast of burden, as when we were step-siblings. I thought of ways to take one course, so long as it would lead back to you. And when I was lost, I only yearned for you more, sister.

Ten years of fighting for Filimer the Exile, while you became a woman of fine virtues and finery in God’s new city, and five more as the closer you came to me, the further my path became from you. It was not Lucifer who saved me as I fell when you returned and I fought Roman Spain, it was a merciful hand, the hand that had taken my brother Liuva. The lord had given me one chance for redemption, just as he had taken away. I will not have my cake and eat it as well, as only hubris and evil does.’

She rolled her eyes and made the sign of Saint Matthew ‘You speak of your primitive Latin fetish. Put your son in me, brother. I command you as Queen.’ Valdamerca commanded.
‘The Pope has sanctioned my marriage to Sunilda through his bishop. The holy father thinks little of your office, and damned be it, if it is severed from the higher will.’ Vandalarius answered. He kissed her on the cheek, and took her hand gently. He bowed, kissing her hand, and walked towards the door. She fell back onto the couch, angry.

‘God has not taken your dead brother, you superstitious gimp. Lucius Duccius Bassus has, and now he seeks parlay with you. That cursed murderer wants to be your friend, and who but you would love your enemies? Witigis’ alliance with the Sicilians troubles African Rome. They’ve lost the Mediterranean. No-one is Emperor of the west without control of it.’
Vandalarius looked back at her. ‘Who could deny many sailors die at the savage sea? Liuva was more impetuous than most. I have no proof of the African hand in Liuva’s death. I will treaty with Lucius as a rival, nothing more.’
Vandalarius would meet with Luccius Duccius, and in Carthage. He would ask of the whereabouts of Radolf and Liuva, but expected no answers, or dismissals that the pirates or sharks had taken them in a storm.
When he returned, he would face the Ebdanians at full strength, at the gates of the kingdom. He had every intention of reclaiming his losses from the end of the Herculean war.

**Zeion** · April 25, 2016, 07:25 AM

I love how desolate and desperate the world of your campaign seems to be. Only some small remaining kingdoms in vast emptiness of scorched earth. The apocalypse is here, indeed.

Is there a chance to get a world view of the whole campaign map? I'm wondering what the situation is like in the east. Also, your strength rating shows #6. Can you still check what the first five factions are?

I'm not going to lie: I totally lost track of the events in your campaign as I did not really have the time and muse to read through your recent updates. But the sheer epicness of your campaign always amazes me! Keep going!

**Lugotorix** · April 26, 2016, 01:33 AM

EPILOGUE: THE QUEEN VALDAMERCA

Autumn 462

Tarragon

The military would rule after Valdamerca the Beneficent had drank herself to death with regret over her step-brother, Valdamerca thought, and right now, half of it was missing.

She had given so much to the people, but nothing had been given back but power. Her husband was dead, her date had passed, and any child at this age would be cursed by a higher power than her. Which isn’t to say she didn’t enjoy the company of men, just not the type, or sometimes ,types, her father would have approved of, at the baths of Tarragon by the old Medusa mosaic.

The Bastarnians would be no obstacle to an army of the Bear Sons of Trapstila’s quality, but Odotheus, Widin and Odoacer had given no report that Witigis had returned. Ligurians spoke of their liberation by Witigis, but had said that after that, he had disappeared to the north. The first thing rebels did when that broke command, was flee into the nearest hills to gain strength and remain elusive, and that was what Witigis had appeared to do, Valdamerca mused to herself.
But not now, she smiled. She had given the order for Chlotsuintha and Chintila to be put under guard, for their protection of course. Not knowing what she was capable of, and with his son and his wife in Valdamerca’s grasp.

If he had wanted a coup, it would have been better secured at Tarento, now that Cniva, who held some clout in the city answered to him. Marius was with her by the fountain in Tarragon. It had been closed to visitors. Vandalarius would be taking the high ground soon against the Irish invaders. She had little concern for his safety. A disloyal general could be replaced. He put too much stock in that silly book of his. None of it’s sympathy would comfort a man like Illiatos. Her jealousy did not turn to violence, but she had considered sending a message to him with Sunilda’s wellbeing. ‘Write this down and see that it reaches Witigis, wherever he is hiding, Marius.’ Valdamerca said. She was standing with his Roman palatine, and had just dismissed Chlotsuintha from her company, indefinitely. Marius had said that was too harsh, but her child, the little prince had been rude to her, and he didn’t know he was tempting her, but Chloe knew too well that Valdamerca could be tempted.

‘I’ll get a messenger for you, Regent.’ Marius answered.

‘Pages can be bought by Witigis. He will not deny your seal.’ She insisted.

Saione Witigis,

You are missed in the capital. This is an urgent recall of all of your standing men to the Kingdom of Tarragon, as we are under threat from the islands of Britain and Hibernia, which have usurped our control over Gaul. Illiatos has given your colleague, and superior Vandalarius knowledge of his father’s belongings, and he will soon defeat the coalition of the isles with our without you. I must remind you of your sacred duty to obey my command, and the command of Vandalarius that is conveyed here. You are needed to send these barbarians back to the misty and cold shores they came from.

Your son, Chintila grows wild in your absence. Earlier today, I gave him an audience with his mother, who are well in my city, and he complimented my green eyes, the little charmer. He then said he wondered what they would look like on a toothpick, as olives are usually placed. I sent Chloe away to discipline our uncoronated king, but not before telling her to arrange a broad welcome for the newest member of your family! I was overjoyed at the news that you are bringing the boy Theoderic into your house. I have arranged a welcome for Munifrida, and Amalasuintha, but please tell me if there is anyone else you wish to be well settled in our jewel of Barcino here. I worry for your honor, but will be assured when you return, with your men, and not these women.

- Yours,, The Countess and Queen Regent Valdamerca

A scathing woman. This intrigue continued for the next couple of years. Witigis was in contempt of the chain of command, but Valdamerca knew better than to test the pride of such an arrogant man. With the Eastern Romans holding so much power in Tarragon, Witigis’ only act of outright defiance would be to cut the kingdom in two, and I knew he would never do that, because in truth, he was fighting for the other half, just not the children of Gaatha. Meanwhile, with Widin arriving from the sea, I made plans to recolonize Rome in the name of the Gothic kingdom, and gain support from the Romans who had been left behind from our defeat years past to the Huns.
The Maurians and Jutes now worked in tandem with the Britons, and that was how Senodios had come into possession of the sword of Theoderic. Witigis truly needed to afford some reinforcements to our homeland, but success depended on Vandalarius next moves after he returned from diplomacy with Roman Africa.

A Secondhand Account from 462 A.D.
Germania

Witigis had planted his feet in the mud of Uburzis, Wirtburch, the capital of his former people, the Burgundians. The Germanic forest was dark along ridge, as the dying day fell into the west, and it had been decades since it had seen the presence of the Goths who had abandoned the far north east of it ages past, fleeing for the shelter of the Roman Empire. The river Main cut through the center of the Burg, and his men were bathing. He would have a bath only when he returned to Chlotsuintha in Tarragon. To the west, were the Caledonians in Gaul, and then the Celts that Vandalarius must confront on his own.

Witigis would be returning to the south to rule over Italy, and he would have Odotheus re-found Rome from the sacked ruins and disrepair that had crept over it since the exodus. Squalor was rife there, but Gothic swords and assurances would replace the abandoned people’s despair with hope and order.

Witiza, king of the Bastarnians, and his lieutenant Savva were destroyed, and Milano to the south across the alps was in firm possession of his Roman governor, Eutropius. He had liberated Liguria for Romano-Gothic interests, and the campaign had been a success. He burned the letters demanding a recall from his campaign after the success at Milano and marched north through Octoduron into Germania. He entered the dark Bavarian forests with his sights set on the Burgundian king Agiulf’s seat of power. Villages were sacked to pay the wages of his men, in the desolate quiet that had fell over these regions in the crossing of the Huns. The people here were beaten, traumatized. It was hard to get them to look you in the eye as his army marched through the dense forests, passing the villages, stopping only to rape and loot. Only the Huns servants the Burgundians remained, and Witigis would settle a score with them for once and for all. He surrounded the city, from all around the deep black forest, and demanded it’s surrender.

Agiulf had been too proud for this, perhaps hoping for reinforcements from the Varinians to the north, unbeknownst to him that the Varinians of Authari had already signed a peace treaty with Witigis in his drive north. It was they who had pleaded for the terms, offering one thousand talents in ransom, to be spared from the attack of the Danes and the Goths who they knew were coming north. The last of the Burgundian kings paid for it with his life.

The Burgundian heavy axes had put up a fight, but were crushed around the crumbling barricades, which spilled over with the superior numbers of Witigis army, which had taken on Italian refugees, criminals and mercenaries to bolster it’s numbers in the march north.

Witigis and his Horses rode in through the west, and overran the onagers set up as a pathetic defense to a city that had been under siege for months.
It had been a hopeless fight for the defenders, with the nobles knowing that a surrender to another Burgundian commander might leave them with favorable terms. Burgundian society was led by the nobles like any Germanic people, and without the leaders in toe against Witigis, and food running short the defenses melted.

He raised the Gothic banner, and silenced the wailing of his kin with gulps of wine, as the revelry of his men came over the sacked burg, which was all smoke and mist. Steam rising from his men who had given so much exertion in the last defense of the city by the Burgundians. His cousins, some of which he hardly knew, were now his prisoners. He freed most of those he knew, but those powerful and dangerous were dealt with as necessary. The were forced to renege any oaths of loyalty they had held to the Huns, and sign a new fidelitas to the queen Valdamerca.

He wasn’t careful with Amalasuintha, but made good on his promises to unite with her once the city was taken and he had a child in the nine months of campaigning in the north against the Burgundians. The past burned, with his sappers and onagers hammering Uburzis, demanding the surrender of Agiulf, his cousin. Theobald had suffered a worse fate than Agiulf, who was ran through cleanly on Witigis’ orders. His other cousins were spared, but given no favor in the court, other than that which the would earn in the army. The women would serve as hand-maidens, and palace attendants, given no nobility.

Witigis looked at the squirrel skull in his palm, his beard long and unkempt. He was doing this for his son Amali son Chintila, for the Goths and Romans who had raised him and given him the honor to sire a king. He would find a good match for Chintila, perhaps Marius’ granddaughter Theodora.

He trembled as he placed down the skull, and looked over the latest letter from the regent again. Perhaps Chloe would not believe her lies, it had, after-all only been once or twice with Munifrida. He was giving the regent a peninsula and she gave him insults, and veiled threats. He could not return with his army, but the letter made him want to. It was purposefully put in the seal of Marius. She still had control of the Roman military in exile from Constantinople. Attacking Tarragon would be foolish from him, and would not only endanger his son and wife, but the kingdom itself. The threat from the Britons was very real, and he would need to stabilize Italy, before sending reinforcements. This letter he intended on replying to. By sending another back from the city of Rome. A city that had not had letters sent to Roman Spain for over two decades. This would be a strong and satisfactory answer.

He arose from his camp desk at the edge of the high fortifications of the husk of Uburzis, ‘Odoacer!’ He shouted.
‘Yes, General?’ Odoacer rushed to him from the men, who were relaxing and eating. He was a handsome blond man, with a trimmed golden beard who was very devoted to the cause in Italy, and equally faithful.
He waved with his hands, and put one on his hip. ‘Pick up the tents.’

‘We’re toasting to your victory. Come join us. Venison on the fire for the general!’ Saione Odoacer replied, shrugging.

Witigis paced, increasingly angered over the letter. ‘The fortunes of the Burgundians are forfeit. Confiscate what you can, as quickly as you can, men.’ He roared, motioning to the warlord’s hoard.

‘Now, Odoacer! Kill any Burgundian who will not march in file with us south. To hell with my kin if they defy me. Rip out anything that shines, and burn this cursed place to the ground.’

‘Mercy, general. Germania has already seen the hell of the Huns.’

‘Do you see this letter. This letter says the regent has our King. I will send our reply from the seven hills of Rome herself and she will know we have succeeded and that Italy is ours.’
‘We are going to Rome, men! We will show her where the heart of the kingdom lies!’ Witigis shouted.

Latium

Autumn 463

The Re-Settlement of Roma

I, Odotheus took to the task of re-founding Rome well. I entered the capital with a cohort from Antillium, and building supplies kept on carts that trailed as far back as the eye could see across the Tiber, and made for the capitol. Mobs had to be dispersed, but they were more happy and desperate than angry to see us. Favors were asked, and some I took in return for the askers help in restoring peace to the cracked city. M. Valerius and Paulus were the strongest gang leaders, but their pitches and hoes and puglio were little match for professional soldiers, and I instructed them to fill the ranks of the workers that would be needed for repairs.

The former Comites Timeus Giboneus Valens was a throw back to our rule in the city, and at first he felt neglected by Gesalec’s departure, but quickly saw us as a way to reinstitute the city guard. It was to his dismay that such a task as taking back Rome had been left to a mere gardingus, but in exchange for his promises that few of the supplies that entered the city would be looted by those starving or looking to make an edge, instead given out fairly, and to the families of the workers, I gave him my promise that he would be restored to his former office in the kingdom, and given local jurisdiction in Rome. It took some convincing to get him to cooperate with the leaders Valerius and Paulus as they had both been frustrating his efforts to return the city to management of the government of Latium, and had in the past worked for the Duccians which he had swore off.

This man got along well with Lycurgus, who had joined me from the south, once we had put down all traces of rebellion there, but he was shocked with how soft Lycurgus’ hands were. The hierarchy in the work camps seemed to be based on how calloused a man’s hands were.

We were greeted as the return of order, by all but the criminals who had used the chaos to prey on the downtrodden populace. Service to the restoration guaranteed citizenship. Even slaves were offered a place in the Kingdom, if they signed contracts. We had brought food to aid in the growth of the city back to it's pre-war levels, and rations were used as a sort of currency in the early days, before the stone masons arrived with talents to pay the workers. Lumber was brought in from the forests near Cuomo and outside of the city. The walls were sealed again with fresh concrete, and spiked barriers were put in place to protect cultural icons from being scrapped.

We found the Capitol with fires set by people who had lost the hearths that once lit the city, others by looting, as we entered the city at dawn. By the dusk of that day, I had put enough safeguards in place for the entering supplies that not much would be wasted. The fires would be put out by the waters of the Tiber and the city of the seven hills would start anew.

Before long a delicatessen had opened, and the streets were filled with throngs of people that were given fresh clothes, and even daggers to defend themselves. I wanted to make a good presentation for Witigis when he returned, to show that Avidius had taught me more than patching up small barns like Antillium, and as the days went by, I was soon Prefect of Rome in all but name.

**Lugotorix** · April 26, 2016, 02:55 AM

Originally Posted by Zeion

I love how desolate and desperate the world of your campaign seems to be. Only some small remaining kingdoms in vast emptiness of scorched earth. The apocalypse is here, indeed.

Is there a chance to get a world view of the whole campaign map? I'm wondering what the situation is like in the east. Also, your strength rating shows #6. Can you still check what the first five factions are?

I'm not going to lie: I totally lost track of the events in your campaign as I did not really have the time and muse to read through your recent updates. But the sheer epicness of your campaign always amazes me! Keep going!

Photobucket was having some issues so when I re-entered the latest screens, I replaced the zoomed in map with a world map that I had on hand. I could go back to 463 from an old save, but it might mess with my Chronicle which I need for a couple of reasons. I can tell you the top five are likely these: the ERE, the Garamantians, the Maurians, the ERE Separatists, and the Ebdanians (Irish). The east is mostly Roman emergent factions like Pontus (the head) and the ERE, Abasgia, Lazica, and a few others. The Sassanids are still around, but I think at some point the Afrighids surpass them. Thanks for the good feedback, and catch up with it when you can. The chapter glossary is working, so you can go back to any point you might have missed or have forgotten. Thanks, again!

**Lugotorix** · April 27, 2016, 07:10 AM

Major spoiler alert- story-boarding of political parties- This is my profession!

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

**seleucid empire** · April 27, 2016, 09:20 AM

Simply Amazing. Im really interested to see how the relationship between Valdamerca and Vandalarius affects the story in the future

**Alwyn** · April 30, 2016, 04:13 AM

Your words evoke the cultures of this time, I especially like phrases such as "pagan Celts who had been baptized not in the holy water of John, but the rugged coastal spray of Lir". The contrast in "He was giving the regent a peninsula and she gave him insults, and veiled threats" is well done. Your writing and images of the restoration of Rome work briliantly and the political story-board is amazing work.

**Lugotorix** · April 30, 2016, 10:09 AM

THE WORM'S HOLE

CARTHAGO

Autumn, 463

Vandalarius said his prayer and made the sign of the cross before entering the pew. Here the Council of Carthage had accepted the teachings of Pelagius as non-heretical. His security detail was heightened in Carthage’s church. It was a holy city, which gave it more significance to Vandalarius, and it had once against surpassed Utica as capital of Africa, after being re-founded following poor farming on the river leading to Lake Tunis. Many councils were held here, the synods of which were presided over by Boniface.

Nothing was holy about the old grudges between the Duccians and the Amalius and they were as fresh as when they had erupted at Caralis. The daughter of Trapstilicus was on the throne, and it was he who had slain the great Roman statesman Lepidus. Vandalarius prayed for the strength to honor the woman he loved, the well-being and blessing of his son, Sarus, and for the safety and security of Gardingus Odotheus and what remained of his Taifali house after the Alemannic betrayal. He also prayed for the Queen Regent to take her later years with grace, for all his refusals, and to stay from the poison liquors that corrupted the mind.

The court had been worried about her, and Sunilda of all people had insisted that he go attend to her, and the last time he had seen her, she was quite drunk, enjoying the company of Marius, to add some jealousy of her own for Vandalarius to stew over. He had always been the younger sibling, and she was reaching the age where a fast lifestyle could end lives. Bleda had his own fast lifestyle, but it made the intrigues of other, less loyal denizens of the court easier to attain with the alibi of substances malady.

Duccius would be seeing him in the early afternoon at a suitably safe location, his armory.

Formalities were given, and a tour of the ancient city rebuilt into the trade hub of the Mediterranean after it was razed during the Punic wars, was provided to the Gothic guards who had left their ship in the harbor under heavy guard. If war was to break out during the negotiations, a hasty departure was needed. The Nymphaius was the speediest vessel in the navy and had been brought, because the talks with Lucius Bassus were interfering with the needed expedition of the conflict against the Irish.
Vandalarius and Widin, who had joined him when he had travelled to Caralis for the trip, had their seafood, rich with oysters and scungili, which made Widin yearn for the comforts of a good accord with Lucius. Vandalarius warned him that they would not be staying long on state business. The Vandalic Kingdom of Hadrumentum was nearby and the Vandalic influence could be seen on the north African city, with the Germanic language not dis-similar with some of the traders they had encountered locally, learning which routes were valuable to better bargain with Lucius.

As they neared this armory of Lucius’, as directed by their guide Widin noted that something was wrong with the location, and it’s condition. It was no standard armory, rather a building hidden away down a cobbled street, boarded up under a Roman arch. The bright African sun beat down on the men- fifteen of them in total, and they all suddenly felt exposed to an ambush. ‘Watch both exits men.’ Vandalarius ordered.

There was a bang of a bolt being unlocked from a door, and a bald eunuch emerged, bowing quickly at the sight of Vandalarius’ guards with their hands on their hilts. ‘Come inside. My master has no love of the sun.’ He said, with a Parthian lisp.

The ‘armory’ of Duccius was a weapons arsenal. A trove of exotic blades and armor from the far reaches of the world. Lucius, they learned, was a talented man with strings, and had travelled as a drummer to the extent of his cousin Lepidus’ campaigns for Stilicho and Flavius Honorius.

The blades were lined up on the deceptively small wall that appeared gigantic from the inside. Two sets of stairs led into a dimly lit gleaming room, with dummies and mannequins dressed in the suits of armor, some lorica segmata, a collection of every people the Romans had ever vanquished. There were even Celt-Iberian scutarii with Arevaci sigils and other antiques from before the crisis of the third century.

Huddled up at a table with two men, was the masked man, Lucius Duccius Bassus. His eyes were bloodshot and ringed red with flakes of dead skin. One arm was wrapped in gauze and oozed a bile like liquid onto the hems of his heavy cloak. ‘You’re afflicted.’ Vandalarius said with awe.

‘Yes, leprosy. It makes addresses and public displays before the people uncomfortable, for them and I.’ The laugh of the man was thin and wheezing, like his insides had curdled.

‘You were a warrior once.’ Vandalarius noted. ‘Did you collect all of these yourself?’ It was a half-serious question, there were relics of an age Lucius could never have known.

‘Most of the blades, yes. There are some Gothic prizes as well.’ He frowned. ‘I do my work with a seal club, saves the leather and chain from being pierced and ruined.’
‘I had expected a different man altogether. I will pray for you.’ Vandalarius said.

‘I don’t need your prayers, I need the Queen’s good will. That’s why you’re here, yes?’ Lucius asked in a hoarse exhalation.

‘I’d thought we could enjoy dinner in the city of Utica. But you’re in no condition for it.’ Widin said. He noticed the eunuch reaching for the scabbard of his sword.
‘Who’s he?’ Widin asked wearily.

‘A Persian eunuch, a collector like me. One of the benefits of using a club. A collector of flesh.’

Widin grimaced, ‘Then he’ll not have my sword. Tell the ghoul to keep his distance.’

‘Very well. We may speak here and discuss the Queen’s peace.’ Lucius said.

The spoke for some time. Vandalarius quibbled over the details of the African fleet fending off the Abasgians, and finally they had agreement that both nations would defend from Arxa’s raiders. The Huns were melting away into the east, but Arxa still sent fleets to threaten the pagan isles. They would interfere with the trade lanes Vandalarius had just personally arranged between Caralis and Carthage. While they were speaking, Vandalarius asked him about his various trophies. A helm from Cimmeria, a Scythian bow, until eventually his eyes set on the falxes and Rhomphia. What Vandalarius saw caused his jaw to set, and his eyes to water, but he kept speaking, his voice wavering a bit as he asked him more about the collection. The longer the man spoke of the gruesome details of each mark he had garnished, and how he had brained them all before having their armor braised and polished, the more Vandalarius' blood boiled. It wasn't entirely that the general couldn't stomach an idolator, it was the heathen savagery. He wondered if Lucius was a pagan, or even held the pretenses of being a Christian ruler. Finally, Lucius, who had a great wealth of information about famous iron and steel asked him about the scabbard fixed on Vandalarius’ back. Vandalarius brushed his fine dirty blonde hair, and waved the question off. ‘I’ll have it replaced with the blade of my father Theoderic when I return home.’ He answered.

‘I am under the firm conviction that when Valdamerca dies, the military will rule until the child Chintila earns his spurs, is that true? Who better than a pious man such as you.’

Vandalarius walked to a francisca on the wall. The Ripurian Franks were no more. This one was probably from their days as foederati. ‘Yes, the military will rule. I will serve as Military Dictator, but the boy Chintila will be king. I swore an oath to him.’

‘Indeed.’ Lucius scraped at his face in disbelief. ‘ Military dictator. Boniface has told me you plan to lay down your sword, and enter the path of your wife Sunilda. You are a good shepherd of the lord, and I hope you’ll make a docile king out of Chintila. I must tell you though, that you rule already. While you dined in my bistro, my ambassador returned from Tarragon as fast as he could. Your step-sister has fallen terribly ill, of a nose-bleed, I believe.’

‘Of what cause?’ Vandalarius asked, angered that the leper had learned of the news before him. It upset him greatly, but he had to keep firm.

‘Exertion?’ Lucius guessed with a bemused fidget.

Vandalarius patted Widin on the shoulder. ‘Then I must return to my Queen, and with haste. Me, I’m a hypocrite. I kill in the name of Christ, and many other demons of my own. I’ll gladly whet my blade in the salty blood the pagan Celts, and surely lead after that, with a triumph in all the glory of Romans.’

‘I've befriended an iron fisted man after-all then. I have your word on our agreement here.’

‘Yes. May I speak to you in private, Lucius?’ Vandalarius asked.

‘There’s no call for that, from such a boastingly broad man as you. You may speak before my men.’

‘I wish to make an addition to your collection, Lucius Bassus.’

‘I am always eager to new acquisitions.’ Lucius Bassus chortled back. ‘What do you offer?’

‘ By the curved blade of my brother, the sword of Theoderic!’ Vandalarius roared. Widin unsheathed his sword. The francisca was already thrown by Vandalarius like a brick from it’s mantle on the wall into the eunuch, who fell with an axe spurting crimson from his skull. Widin rushed to the nearest soldier and brought his blade down in a slash. It was parried and the two began fighting tooth and nail. At the sound of the yelling and commotion, the guards on both sides had tried to break down the bolt of the door into the cavernous trove of the worm, but it was sealed tightly and soon they turned accusations and then the sword on each-other.

Vandalarius saw the quick leper rise and grab his club. It was riddled with notches. The man was clearly adept at fighting. But Vandalarius’ reach was too much, combined with the length of the sword of Theoderic, pried from the cold dead hands of Senodios before he had departed for Africa. Vandalarius indeed killed for things other than God.

He charged and the blade severed the loose, rotting arm of Lucius that had taken up the club at the wrist. The club clattered to the cold slate floor beneath them in the dim orange light. Vandalarius planted the sword of his father into a running guard who had attended the ledgers in the back of the armory. He strode to Lucius and, grabbing the severed wrist began beating him with his own arm, with no caution for the leper’s blood that coated him. ‘You’ll never escape.’ Lucius spat, squealing, brandishing a shin puglio and sticking it cleanly into Vandalarius’ maimed arm. The arm was dead weight, and blow didn’t pain him as much as the sight of his blood, but Vandalarius’ fighting skills had increased with the use of it.

He had shown no caution, as the blood flecked and splashed across the room and papers at the table. Vandalarius seethed and pulled the punching dagger from his arm, sticking it into the chest of Lucius, who began gulping for air, perhaps a lung punctured. He crawled onto the table as Widin overcame his advisor, and began flopping around like a fish, while Vandalarius fetched his brother’s Rhomphaia from the wall. Liuva had perished at sea afterall, Radolf’s armor and arms must be somewhere in this God forsaken place. Perhaps stuffed, and that had been the final straw in his decision, knowing his brother’s remains probably suffered a cruel destiny and would never be retrieved.

Vandalarius motioned for Widin to be deathly quiet, despite his injuries in close combat, as to not bring the entire city guard on them. He slowly plunged the Rhomphaia of Liuva into the diseased gasping maw of Lucius. He left the impaled body pouring it’s weight in gore and waste onto the table.

They opened the door from the inside, hearing quiet outside. Vandalarius crossed his fingers for a good outcome, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his fourteen guards had only taken three casualties in silencing the immediate guard of the Roman governor. They would never have expected an attack here. Rhomphaia were commonly used by sailors as they could grapple to the planks, and Lucius must not have known it was a gift from the Thracian oathsworn of the East. It was doubtful they even knew where their leper baboon of a governor was. Widin was bleeding from two stabs to his gut. He was held up by a guard.

‘Gothic soldiers who’ve been in a bloody fight, we can’t leave the city like this.’

His guardsman Odalric spoke, his numbers down to eleven. ‘We will have a war on our hands. Lycurgus of Tarento will battle Carthage in war not seen since.’ He had never seen his commander so ruddy to the face, nor entirely bathed in blood of his enemies. The man had been baptized in Roman blood and there was a wildness in his eyes, that had never existed, where he had once held composure. He had been training for years for the use of his one armed fighting with the great sword, and now that it was his, that training had gone to use in a terrible display of violence Odalric hadn’t even witnessed yet.

‘Yes. The third century. Follow me into the worm’s den, men of Tarragon.’

They boarded the Nymphaius dressed not in the finery of Gothic military fashion, but as limatanei sentinels of the third century, taken from the mannequins, the armor of men killed in one civil uprising by the Roman himself or his liege at the time. In the city behind them, was Widin, who had succumbed to his wounds, and the dead leadership of the Roman port. Vengeance for Liuva was his, and questions were answered for himself and Valdamerca. It had come at a cost. His adopted disciple Widin was lost. The seas would never be safe again, and Arxa and the Gaetulians and Maurians now had another ally in control of the seas.

Vosenios the Ri of Ulaid, and the Irish armies of Senorix and Daccios awaited him at home, and under their threat was his dying sister. He had nearly lost the arm for the second time, and he would tend to her last days, God willing, before confronting the Irish, with one arm again. Another sword would have to be used, one that could be wielded with one hand. Marius would provide him with his own, while the blade of his father was enshrined for a time in Tarragon, it’s rightful place, and given time and Odotheus’ efforts, Rome once more.

**Lugotorix** · April 30, 2016, 07:08 PM

Originally Posted by Alwyn

Your words evoke the cultures of this time, I especially like phrases such as "pagan Celts who had been baptized not in the holy water of John, but the rugged coastal spray of Lir". The contrast in "He was giving the regent a peninsula and she gave him insults, and veiled threats" is well done. Your writing and images of the restoration of Rome work briliantly and the political story-board is amazing work.

Thanks for telling me what stands out. That gives me motivation to write more descriptively with each line. I had fun with the story board, and I've been wanting to do it for awhile. I also have an illustration in mind for the last chapter that I want to do but I can't find a drawing surface. It's more like recreation than work.

**baozi** · May 01, 2016, 04:52 AM

Your writing is absolutely amazing, the way you knit characters together with such dynamic storyline based on a campaign game is astounding. The transitions in your writing are also extremely fluid, an enjoyment to read.

Have you been sticking to same save this entire AAR? What was the difficulty level? I never seen the AI raze this much land, granted I never ran pure vanilla over 10 turns.

**Lugotorix** · May 01, 2016, 05:24 AM

Originally Posted by baozi

Your writing is absolutely amazing, the way you knit characters together with such dynamic storyline based on a campaign game is astounding. The transitions in your writing are also extremely fluid, an enjoyment to read.

Have you been sticking to same save this entire AAR? What was the difficulty level? I never seen the AI raze this much land, granted I never ran pure vanilla over 10 turns.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

Thanks for the compliments! Your AAR is great on a meticulous visual level and has good attention to historical detail. Some things I will never understand how you've accomplished, like getting Authorius' sword to the chieftain's throat.

This is on Hard. I've only done Visigoths in TLR and a handful of AoC campaigns (Danes, Cordoba, Mercia and Asturias iirc) on Legendary, plus Carthage in HatG on Legendary. In Attila at launch, razing was out of control. Although the Huns will raze about the same amount in today's build, the other non-nomadic factions will raze 1/50 or until a settlement is completely wrecked, as opposed to 2/5 at launch. This is the same save up until this point, but re-saves around the time Filimer was King, because it was game-breaking after some battles fighting off all of the stacks that came chasing after me. It can be chalked up to inexperience and not defeating the Huns as the game intends. This is the second campaign I've attempted in Attila, so everything is launch level, and only around this point will you start to see The Longbeards and others start to filter in as gold emblem factions.

I think for the entirety of the Celtic wars the Celts were unplayable which means to use their rosters, I have to do custom battles instead of replays. Same with Aksum etc. The save stays the same until 496, because I first re-completed the campaign wanting to keep someone alive at the end game, and then re-completed it for a third time going back to the year 496 for story reasons as well as to save redundant campaign time. This is helpful as all of the replays from 496 onwards are the latest build of vanilla. So the campaign finished date went from initial completion of cultural at 522, to military at 521, then when I was really playing for story purposes, to military and almost divine triumph at 519. Those nineteen years can be told in a very long epilogue, I'm aiming for the date 501-503 for completion of the slow grind AAR, because that's where the story effectively ends. So basically there's three different Chronicles, but all three of them are almost identical, two moreso than the other.

**Alwyn** · May 01, 2016, 09:50 AM

I enjoyed the way that you describe the armoury of Duccius, with its weapons from distant and fallen nations. Vandalarius' discovery is a dramatic moment! I wonder what will happen in the confrontation with the Irish armies.

**Lugotorix** · May 10, 2016, 10:38 AM

THE HIBERNIAN HORDE

A snowflake fell on Vandalarius’ brow as he addressed the men. His hair was long and golden, and stubble of gold ringed his sickly green looking face, as he swallowed the vomit that came from the corruption of his arm:
‘ I know it’s a dreary slump men, our queen deathly ill, the weather worsening, and losses from Turonum to Baiona. We did not ask for the avarice of the Irish kings. True, their people are starving and freezing in infertile plagued land. You don’t need me to tell you the world is a mire of disease and cold and darkness. But this is about survival. This is about all we’ve fought for in the past, and all we’ll fight in the future. The bite of hungers for women and hunger for food, and the winds have made these men suicidal. Now I know the Christian way, the golden way would be to invite these men in from the cold, but hear me, their kings will not have it. Their kings will have it all, all our rich lands and the spring they bring, or nobody will. So it’s them or us, and I’ll not die in self-righteous vanity. How about you, men? Will you give them the freedom of death? Lord forgive us for the sweet bloody mercy we’re about to show them!’

THE BATTLE OF THE ARGA

The general had returned to the capital without full use of his arm, and it’s condition became corrupted, and blackened. He had cleaned the wound on his forearm with saltwater aboard the Nymphaius, but there had been no supplies or tourniquets to keep it from becoming infected, and it festered until he returned home to Tarragon. So when he went to see the Regent at her bedside, the arm was in a sling. He soon lost complete use of it, so that it could only be tithed to a shield, which he could lift and manipulate with his working shoulder.

The Regent was delirious, but insisted that she kept to the wine. The thin trickle of blood had stopped flowing from her nose, clotting in a red crescent, something the wine wouldn’t help to alleviate, but she lay on her sheets, and it was demanded of her by Vandalarius that she rest and recover. He knew she never would, men had perished from less than her malady, but he wanted her as comfortable as possible. She spoke of fables and childhood stories of the two. He didn’t remember most of the stories, and he wondered if she was hallucinating, but those he did gave him a deep sense of forlorn sentimentality. He promised that he would protect the realm and gain a victory to the north in the Pyrenees, and she promised him that enough of the military already knew of his claim to military rule over the country should she fade away. She mentioned again Witigis’ ambition, and that he may take early steps to put his son on the throne. She told him to wait for the hordes near the entrance of the river Arga to the Pyrenees mountains in Navarre, as her spy Sigeric had told her that Baiona in the far south of Aquitaine had fell to the enemy. They were desperate for a city that was stocked with foodstuff for the winter, after Bordeaux’s supplies had been depleted in the siege.

By the day of the battle, in a cold early spring of 465, Vandalarius couldn’t feel his fingers and had lost movement of his hand. He was given a long-sword by Marius, some of the finest steel from the east, and he carried it in his right hand, while his left presently carried the Draco of his father’s steppe wolves.

Vandalarius spoke to his shield bearer, letting him know that once his Taifali sigil round shield was used on his horse, he would require a smaller buckler for fighting on foot, joining the men. His arm was wrapped tightly and braced, and he could not carry a large shield on foot, without sitting on his stately white war-horse.

The cold wind howled from the hill at the gap north of Navarre, where Vandalarius had positioned his troops in the snows. Somewhere out there, beyond the trees in the hill-land below, was Daccios and Vosensios, Kings of the Irish.
When they came into sight, there were thousands of them, using none of the ambushing tactics of the misty isles, instead riding and marching in formation on hobiguer and hundreds more carrying the leashes of barking war dogs. The warriors came over the hill lines at a slow march, with war-paint and their shields emblazoned with winding patterns of the mythos of the isle of Hibernia.

They meant to intimidate with their numbers, and break the will of the Goths before they arrived, in their home country, not entirely far from Pamplona.

Over-eager with their horses, those were the first to clash with their light horse counterparts, followed by the barrages of the Kerns’ armature against the front lines of pikes.

‘General. We might want to watch the fight from further back.’ The attaché to the general, Cniva, Odotheus' master, said, his voice wavering. ‘ Not at all.’ Vandalarius said, brimming with pride of his troops, mostly skirmishing horsemen who were holding strong against the Kerns. ‘ They will crash on us like waves on the rocks.’

After a brigade of swords overcame four to ten of his horsemen, throwing their javelins from the high ground, a standard bearer of the Irish emerged and began shouting that the winter was fiercer than here in Hibernia and that the crops would not grow, that the Caledonians did not allow them to settle on their lands, and they would take what was needed for survival from northern Gaul, and now beat Tarragon into submission to hold onto their newly acquired southland of Bordeaux. Vandalarius motioned for an archer to take the hollering man down, before he convinced his men themselves, and not the proud warriors he was trying to motivate.

What the Kerns inflicted was not pretty, with many a man speared like a pincushion by the many javelins, pouring steaming blood into the cold snow.

The warhounds, Irish wolfhounds, were led into the footsoldiers of the Goths, and they knocked men down and tore at their throats. The hounds chased those who were broken and fled for higher ground, while the rest of them were thrown to slaughter in the pitched battle against the light horses and foot spears, who could not fight the quick dogs as close as they were. Growling and snarling was the last savage sound that reached the ears of many of the dying Goths.

The waves of tartans advanced into a run upwards on the hill, wild warriors of the ilk that Vandalarius had already experienced against the Picts. He rode leisurely toward the lower hill where his horses were already clashing with the incoming swordsmen. ‘Where are you going.’ Totila asked.

‘To send them to a better place, to send them to god’s embrace. They’ll have free reign over the south when they’re dead.’ Vandalarius huffed. Using all of his strength, he was able to lift the Taifali Draco high, which summoned a roar of the few Taifali who remained in his army to charge down the hill. He had already instructed the archers to fire when the Irish were in range, and their horses fell. The Gothic archers were uncertain whether disobeying orders from their commander or firing on him would elicit a worse disciplining.

The best horses carrying the kings of the Irish used the generals guard’s advance to ride hard for the south-eastern flank of the hills, around the bulk of the ranged units along the tree-line. There they confronted the softer swords and axes of the Marian army, far from the pikemen who guarded the archers.

‘Onwards, infantry. Meet them.’ Vandalarius shouted, sticking a swordsman of the Irish infantry clean through with his sword arm. His white horse bristled at the sight of Irish footmen emerging from the hills below, as thick and pale in the sun as the snow beneath them. The screaming of the horses, was drowned out only by the deafening war chants of the horde of Vosenios rushing to get higher ground on the hill. The Romans of Hispania who met them were solemn in their butchery, and said nothing, not even complimenting each-other on their grim work at the battle raged.

Vandalarius turned his horse from where he had met the enemy and rode back for his general’s, raising his shield again to signal his bodyguards to follow him back into the thick of his troops.
He smiled as the Iuvenes and Spear Veterans rushed past him to confront the zealots of Scatha and the berserkers who made way for the Irish army while their general crushed his first obstacle far on the hill to the south, clearing a way for more horses to flank the Gothic army.

He couldn’t be certain whether it was Daccios or Vosenios, but a contingent of the horsemen who had gotten around his men were dismounting, in heavy chainmail, and rushing to flank the pikes themselves.
A grand melee emerged just below the edge to the forest where the archers were hidden, and the blood of hundreds of dying men melted the ice and foot deep snow, making a slippery slush for those coming uphill still.

The unchecked, uncontested aggression of the Irish upon Gaul was now being addressed, in what was perhaps the largest battle of Vandalarius’ career: with three thousand men to the seven thousand Irish and their allies, all the defenders had on their side was the attrition that had affected the Irish in their march across the mountains south, and the high ground they had picked, well rested, and safe from the elements in the nearby fort on the Arga river, flowing into the mountains. Vandalrius had assured his men that the hordes would get to Baiona and no farther. They had a King to break.

The casualties inflicted from his archer heavy force would rout the invaders, while his men assured that any flight would result in further, less glorious defeats, all the way to the walls of Pamplona and Zaragoza, and eventually, Tarragon itself. They could have victory in death today, or death in defeat later, and the sight of the enemy falling in droves before them, would reassure even the most cowardly that they would never reach the heights of the hill. They had the high ground, and they had the advantage in armaments and armor, and were much fresher than the Celts that had march from Baiona.

The snows fell as the exhausted Irish horses charged through to the softer center of the army, far from the reserves that were at dizzying heights. There would be many casualties. The shrieking Celtic druids and giants among the swords who danced death through the army, were brought down, until the front ranks of pikes faced alone at the deepest advance of the defending army at the weight of numbers of the Irish armies.

And into the melee breaking at the tip of the pikes, warred Vandalarius and Daccios, who had left his horse. Vandalarius, after retreating on his horse was slowed by an arrow, misguiding the wounded horse until it crashed into his own pikes, who shouted to protect the general, his attaché, Saione Cniva of Tarentum, giving him his buckler as he had instructed.

The two generals began to fight with their general’s guard before the very pikes of the Gothic army, while his own lines were pressed now on two sides, by cavalry behind him, and footswords before him. Heads and limbs rolling limply down the hill on the ice. Cniva shouted, ‘Protect the general, protect your liege!’ And the pikes rushed forward, enveloping the two generals, who for a moment, met each other face to face, both sporting golden plumes on their helmets that marked their rank. Vandalarius punched as hard as he could with his maimed left arm and it’s buckler at Daccios, while Daccios with his golden plume, swung with his right. His shield was a tower, and it was pierced by the plunging tip of Vandalarius’ sword, to his surprise, the sword of Theoderic, which had been jealously guarded from his fallen horse, into the grieve of his one good sword arm that could barely lift the mighty blade. Vandalarius pressed with the tip of the blade, trying to reach Daccios, but instead, Daccios cut against the padding of Vandalarius’ left arm: Vandalarius couldn’t feel the nerves, but the nerves could feel the blade cutting, and the arm gave way, and made to swing for the general’s head, his own blade anchored in the great shield of Daccios, unable to be freed. Vandalarius saw his end coming, and he made peace with Christ in that instant.

A pikeman edged forward just in time and jabbed his pike into the leg of Daccios. With the support of the injured leg gone, the sword of Theoderic pierced through, splintering wood as it finished off Daccios in a fount of gore from his neck. The offending sword that was swung at Vandalarius flew into the air past his head, bouncing of the shields of the pikemen who pressed harder against the infantry. Vandalarius made the sign of the cross, covered in Daccios blood, and shouted a psalm of victory in Latin over the din.

The fight behind them might get worse, but the front could not break or they would be exposed to the full numbers of the Irish force.

Cniva rushed to Vandalarius and shouted ‘We must retire, now. General.’

‘Where is the King Vosenios? The men need my example.’ Vandalarius asked, seething. Cniva of Tarentum shook his head.

‘The high command cannot be compromised. You could be the best swordmaster in the kingdom and still fall victim to the battle.’ Cniva explained, taking Vandalarius by the shoulder and pulling him back beyond the lines.

Vandalarius, master of one armed swordsmanship

Vandalarius roared and turned, urging his men onwards. The sword of Theoderic was snatched from his hand by the pommel by Cniva, who trudged up the hill with the weapon, not casting an eye to Vandalarius. Vandalarius cursed, and shouted for his men to be brave while he was gone at the tents. Where the blade went, he would follow, and Cniva knew this.

Later that day, the din of the battle waged far away, while in the woods, in their tent, Cniva and Vandalarius shook off the cold and discussed the strategy for the next day of fighting. A messenger arrived and told them that the Irish were retreating, that they had had enough losses, having never broken the center or the front.

‘Sent word to the captains. Vosenios is somewhere dead out there. He came for Tarragon and it’s there he’ll be buried, after gracing the eyes of our queen. Tell them to take on any who will defect, and offer clemency, now that their leaders are dead. We’ll move south to Pamplona for the winter.’

When Vandalarius returned to the capital, the mood was not of celebration. The Kingdom had been saved from the Irish hordes, but the tone was deathly in the cold halls as Vandalarius proceeded to visit the queen. He was excited to tell her of the victory, as ill as he was, but when he reached the halls of her residence, the military adjuncts were respectful, and Marius emerged and bowed to Vandalarius.
‘Why do you bow to me as such? How fares the queen?’

‘You are now magnificus vir parens patriusque noster. Protector of Chintila, the heir to the Empire, and supreme commander of the Gothic armies, and military rule of the Kingdom of Tarragon. The people answer only to your rule, and the rule of your generals now.’ Marius said in a hallowed regretful tone.

Marius made to kiss his hand and his Draco ring but instead Vandalarius stooped to his level, took the hand of the patrician of the east in his good hand, and began to tear uncontrollably without weeping.
‘Your lord must see his sister.’ Vandalarius said gravely.

‘She knew of the victory before she slipped under.’ Marius edged in.

‘Not from me. Not from me, living.’ Vandalarius answered: He was becoming choleric in his righteousness, and he had to calm himself when speaking to Marius, rising and entering the bed-chamber of the queen regent.
She could not speak, and was fragile and thin, as pale as the white marble walls. He held her head in his hands and told her.
‘We have victory, sister.’ He barely managed the words.

‘The pain of the battle, the loss of my arm, knocked out the cobwebs, I heard your memories, and heard your voice as clear as when you were young and spoke it. It was all true. For hours as I wormed about in my coach, you were young again, sister, and I heard your father Trapstila’s voice, before he was ill, and the voice of Theoderic before he was slain. I heard Gaatha telling me of your green gown, and I saw us dance.’ She looked at the ceiling, having lost all of her wits.
‘I remembered the kiss from the cellar of Caralis.’ Vandalarius said, looking for a response. ‘God hear me, bring her about!’ He shouted in the hall.

‘ And I remembered that he the lord is as silent as you in these times.’ Vandalarius placed his glove in her hand, and squeezed three times. The squeezes came back to him in metronome, three for the three he had given her. He placed his deadened clammy hand in hers, the one from his maimed arm and waited, letting her know the arm was crippled. Three squeezes came from her hand. Her eyes were blank, but who knew what she dreamed of, having him there.

**seleucid empire** · May 10, 2016, 11:19 AM

wow, brilliantly written. This last update has got to be my favourite chapter in the entire aar so far

**Lugotorix** · May 10, 2016, 11:42 AM

Originally Posted by seleucid empire

wow, brilliantly written. This last update has got to be my favourite chapter in the entire aar so far

Thanks so much, it was the hardest for me to write. I was having writer's block, which I haven't had at all for the entire AAR. I was completely unmotivated for a couple of days.

Thread: Vandalarius: The One Sword of The Romano-Gothic Empire [COMPLETED]- Updated May 24th '19

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