[IB AAR] At The Limes

**SeniorBatavianHorse** · December 28, 2007, 12:36 PM

The Tenth Consilium

. . . Divine Will manifests itself in a multitude of ways and the all-knowing God is magnificent in his benevolence. Yet his Will is also made unto us in trials and burdens which test even the most indomitable wills. So it was that word reached us all here in Augusta Vindelicorum that ill-forces swept the loyal men of His Most Dominant Augustus, Constantius Flavius, as he is now known, in honour of the tree planted by Constantine himself and which was often sprinkled with its own blood. Here, in the basilica, Allobich, ever impatient and aroused to oaths in his Gothic tongue, could only listen with impatience, as almost daily messengers arrived from over the Alps with news and none of which addressed our humble province. Many times, I saw him twist the onyx ring upon his finger, that gift from the dead Honorius, which must weigh upon his heart like a burden now.

Tired men from the Italies arrived with word that the Augustus had ordered Rome to be re-taken from the petty tyrants and senators who played at imperial politics, and that a hastily assembled force of legionaries and cavalry, newly recruited, had been brought up from the south of the peninsula to storm the walls, bearing aloft the standards of Constantius Flavius, who even now proceeded eastwards through the Gauls to the Italies. I saw Allobich question these tired men, men who had witnessed the devastations of the Goths under Alaric and seen the flower of the legions cut down in the field, and in his eyes I could see his despair as one by one these men looked away when describing those Romans who now marched north to the Eternal City, and the heart of Rome. What pride once resided in the names of the Roman legions! What fear they inspired in the pagan hearts of the barbarians who stormed our limes like a scourge from God! What honour gleamed like starlight in their eyes as they marched to the tramp of the feet ever fearlessly along our roads to face their foes! Now these men could not look our Magister in the eye when he asked them to describe these new recruits about to storm Rome itself. These tired men looked away, their shoulders slumped and their heads bowed before his stern gaze and I saw them grip the hilts of their spathas with all the frustration of men who knew that their old glory was fading and that where once walked titans now shuffled little boys, and it made me weep to see this pain and this humiliation . . .

As for our Augustus, his travel east from Narbonensis Secunda was delayed as bands of bacaudae roamed in the foothills of the mountains to the west and now the barbarians of Alaric, ever gloated with booty and the overbearing swagger of pride, moved north along the coast, sacking and burning the great latifundia estates as they went. The Gauls, it was rumoured would be next to suffer their depredations. This events gave pause to Constantius Flavius and rumour told us that his escort were moving slowly and with caution. Still, we waited on word from our emperor but none came as the Spring weather ripened into the full, lazy, months of Summer.

Then a messenger arrived with black news indeed.

The Magister was on field exercises north of the town vallum, where the little river know as the Oda merges into a straggling run of trees and copses. He was deploying the front-line infantry in battle-order against the lighter rear lines in skirmish order and demonstrating the effectiveness of the latter in field operations amongst broken terrain. It was late in the day, and many of the soldiers were resting along the Oda’s embankment, having doffed their helmets to quench their thirst in its crystal waters, when the dust-laden entourage appeared eager to speak to the Magister. Allobich, squatting down amongst his staff officers and in the middle of marking lines of engagement in the sands, stood up immediately and bade them speak freely. I was near-by and hurried to snatch up stylus and parchment.

Rome had not fallen from the assault by the legionaries under the Augustus’ orders. The Tribune, Aulus, in command of the newly raised Senior Constaninian Legion, in honour of the Augustus and by his mandate, had breached the huge walls of the Eternal City and stormed inside but this was a city which had suffered the sack of the Goths under Alaric and which was now garrisoned with tyrants dressed in purple tatters. Such men knew how to man her walls and knew how to defend her streets. The legion was picked off and cut down in pieces as it struggle to fight its way into the heart of the Forum and cut off the head, as it were. The fighting had been bitter and bloody, with Roman killing Roman in a mad rage like animals. Aulus had never stood a chance. His men were butchered in the alleyways and the atriums and the forums until they begged for a christian mercy which never came. Only the tribune with some desperate survivors remained to reach the centre of the city only to cut down by the Roman cavalry. The first newly-proclaimed and honoured legion of the emperor was no more. Its blood drying now in the drains and culverts of Rome itself.

Allobich walked away at that news, throwing his wide Gallic cloak over his shoulders. Agricola started up in his wake but Manutius pulled him back and shook his head. We watched this man who guarded our borders with such fidelity and such steadfastness disappear into the trees and his men, lolling now by the river-bank, and wondered on his thoughts as it dawned on us that the more we held this thin, red, line by the river, the more Rome at our back fell into ruin and decay. And I wondered on God’s Will then, that if the heart lay bleeding out its end, what use this limes, this fragile boundary we all fought so hard to hold here beyond the Alps?

Before these thoughts could rive my soul, these messengers, in their worn cloaks and dusty apparel, sighed and in simple words, almost so empty of emotion as to betray their import, told us that Theodosius in Constantinople, having heard the envoy from Constantius Flavius, had spurned the offer of imperial alliance and was even now marching westwards with the standards and the dragons of the east. My stylus trembled then to write those words and truly I realised that God’s Will was unfathomable, a divine mystery we mortals could never unravel . . .

**SeniorBatavianHorse** · December 30, 2007, 08:07 AM

(Of course, the trembling hands of ‘Florus’ reflect a genuine unease now that the eastern Romans under Theodosius II have rejected the overtures of the newly elected Constantius Flavius. History fails to record in the main his reasons for doing so and one can only speculate that suspicion of complicity in the death of Honorius must have played some part - that and the endless intrigues fought out between the imperial courts ensconced in Ravenna and Constantinople must have divided the two courts.
(see further the vituperation poured forth against Rufinus and Eutropius by Claudian the court poet of Stilicho http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/...dian/home.html )

Perhaps the advisors around the young Theodosius, seeing the apparent ruin of the western half of the Roman empire, counselled a re-unification under a single emperor at Constantinople and the reviving of the Theodosian House, shorn of Constantius’ intermarriage with Galla Placidia. Regardless, in the spring of that year, the praesental army and elements of the Thracian field army marched west into the Pannonian and Illyricum provinces, using two main thrusts. Late in Summer, the main forces under Aspar, lay siege to Salona on the Illyricum coast.

It is interesting, in this context of Roman civil war and conflagration, that Allobich hold so stubbornly to the limes in Raetia Secunda. He maintains order, deploys the soldiers on training exercises, steps up the river patrols and generally acts as if securing the limes is the entirety of his remit. Which it is, of course, but only under the mandate of Honorius. Escher speculates, and I have to concur, that the Magister Equitum, aware that chaos is sweeping the Italies, remains distant from it all in an attempt to preserve his integrity an also to see how the chips fall, as it were.

In this context, we cite a further report from Felix as evidence of Allobich’s continuing care in maintaining the doomed limes:

Correction XXXII

. . . It was high Summer and my men were infiltrating the outer hamlets of the Argentoratum. We were not expecting much, to be honest, as the passage of Roman armies across their lands and the ravages of the Burgundians had thoroughly subdued these people but as the old Areani used to say - the vigilance of one man is worth an ordo of sleeping men. We had a few men posing as beggars on the fringes of the main gates when, one morning, a large retinue of richly-clad barbarians arrived. We knew at once that they were Burgundians. I swear one of my men recognised Goaric from the gleam of his arm-bands as they trotted through the gates. This was not expected.

It took us days of careful work, a solidus here, an old favour called in, the gleam of a dagger in the night, before we ascertained that, yes, it was Goaric but he was only commanding the escort of a noble Burgundian chieftain called Isenbard, and this man was here to conduct careful negotiations with the Alemanni council and its rex. One of my men, Oriscus the Elder, a Greek who could blend in like a twig in a forest, spent three days working as a slave around the rex’s main hall and was able to tend to this Isenbard’s toilet on one occasion. Day by day, Alemanni nobles arrived covered in the dust of riding and held council deep into the night. To our surprise, the Burgundians were not treated with anger or contempt. Instead, they were honoured with mead and the best cuts of the hunt at the table of the Aleman rex.

One night, Oriscus reported to me in the woods to the north by the broken well; our arranged meeting spot. He told me that the Burgundians, deep now in the Gauls, wished only peace now with the Alemanni and invited them to migrate west where they were to join them as brothers against the weak Romans. These Romans had proclaimed a new emperor - a weak man, used to fighting only his own kind - and that now all the Germans could fall upon the Gauls like a flood, like an overwhelming tide of destruction.

Forgive my anticipation, my Magister, but there was not time to dispatch a rider through the barbaricum to inform you of all this and so I alone, without my men, crept into the barbarian encampment, now sprawling amid the old marble ruins of the Roman buildings of old, and sought out the abode of this Isenbard. If I have acted against your wishes, cashier me, my Magister or do worse. I will submit to your justice in all - but my men are blameless in this.

He was restless man, this Isenbard, he roamed the corridors late into the night, drinking mead and growling at the sleepy guards who honoured his presence, but I am tenacious. I hung upon his heels like a shadow in the night, black within black, and at last, I found him alone, in a little room hung with tapestries from Aegypt. He never knew what death it was that took his soul into whatever afterlife these pagans believe in. His eyes will remain forever frozen upon those tapestries. His mind lost in the wonder of the deserts and the lions and the sphinx herself, even as my slight blade slid beneath his ribs and silenced his heart between one beat and the next.

The next morning, a great outcry shattered the drowsy peace and Goaric could be heard roaring that the treacherous Alemanni had slain Isenbard in the night. We heard the clang of arms, the shrieks of the dying, and then a frantic clatter of hooves and witnessed the remaining Burgundians fight their way out of Argentoratum and to freedom. I saw Goaric gallop past, all covered in blood, and with a fresh scar upon his cheek, and for a moment his eyes caught mine and I tipped him a low Roman salute. You will rejoice to hear, my Magister, that the horror in his eyes at the salute will stay with him for a long time.

The Alemanni remain friendless in the barbaricum, my Magister and I await your orders

**SeniorBatavianHorse** · January 03, 2008, 12:11 PM

The Eleventh Consilium

It was high Summer and the news of Aspar’s advance into Illyricum and the siege of Salona wrought a black mood over us all here in Raetia Secunda. Word arrived that the eastern Romans had demolished the glorious three-nave basilica dedicated to the memory of St. Domnius which lay outside the city’s walls and that another church, dedicated to that glorious martyr, Anastasius, had also been defiled by the Hunnish foederates of the Imperial army. Behind the great walls of Constantinople, the Augustus Theodosius, proclaimed Constantius a tyrant who had wed into the Purple for his own gain and that the sacred line of Theodosius would not be sullied by such an impostor. There were rumours that agents of the east were even now moving over the Alps to present gold and titles to Constantine in the Gauls; and that Heraclius, the Ducal commander of the Africas, and nominally Caesar to our Constantius, was being suborned also. We trembled like the leaves on a sapling at every rider who cantered, weary and dust-laden, into Augusta Vindelicorum. And still no word arrived from our emperor.

But we were not meek in these times, either.

Deep in the barbaricum and across the Rhine limes into the provinces of the two Germanies, the Tribune Felix at the head of his silent and grim men moved like shades of the underworld; and at their passing blood and confusion were sowed like bitter seeds. Crispus, too, that glaring Hispanic with his grey hair and contemptuous look, drifted over the hills and dark forests with all the cunning of a native. If word from the east was unsettling then that from the north and west balanced it with the effects our craft and intelligence. I saw, also, many times the tireless energy of our Magister, Allobich, and sat with him through the long nights by the fading glow of the candles as he assessed reports and dictated lists and missives to those in the barbaricum or stationed at Castra Regina. But for his uncouth hair and those coins, this Goth and Arian struck on a regal pose and I wondered on those emperors of old renowned for their endless devotion and care for the state - Octavian, Hadrian, Marcus Antoninus and Diocletian - that first Augustus to bear a truly Hellenic name. I look hard then at this Romanised Goth and wondered on why he retained those barbaric locks and their golden ornaments but dared not break his work or concentration to ask him.

One time in particular, as the evenings faded gently into the hazy nights and the air was replete with the tang of quince and apple, and Allobich, Posthumus Dardanus, Agricola and Manutius, together with the slaves and notaries, exchanged hot words over the wine and honey, that the Hispanic from Ravenna appeared unbidden into the chamber like a silent breeze. He looked worn and tired but refused the proffered wine and instead tossed almost contemptuously onto the ivory table a scroll covered in blood. His words lacked all due ceremony as he informed us that the Constantinians were allied with the Saxon tribes to the north along the lower Rhine and that envoys from Constantinople were deep in the Gauls as we feared. A large force of regular troops was moving eastwards towards the Rhine limes and the bridge crossing at Augusta Rauricum intent on closing the door, as it were, which our Magister had opened with such vigour. Here, Crispus paused and eyed Allobich almost with pity which unnerved us all - used as we were to his prickly demeanour. He gestured to the scroll on the ivory of the table and told us that it contained lists of these troops and then he hesitated and his words fell away into a heavy silence. Posthumus, ever green and raw to the eddies of men’s minds began to question Crispus as to the commander of these troops but then Allobich rose up and forestalled him with a gesture from his scarred hand. The two Tribunes of the legions frowned at that and even the slaves hesitated from the pouring of the wine.

Allobich laughed then into our silence and told us in simple words, which made us all shiver to hear them, that these troops were commanded by Eldobich, his shield-brother, now a Comes in the army of Rome who had thrown in his lot with the usurper Constantine. This tyrant was now turning brother against brother across the limes in revenge for the defeat almost nine long months ago. It was both an insult and a challenge. Crispus rose up then and turned to leave into the velvet of the darkness beyond the flickering candles - his final words hanging in the air - words which spoke of Roman swords sheathed in Roman bowels and Roman cities aflame before the marching tread of Roman soldiers. That night, as the quince and the apple left fragrant traceries in the air about us, we all shivered like children and wrapped ourselves deeper in our cloaks.

The next morning, Allobich assembled the legions on the field of Mars beyond the fossa where over a year ago John the Pannonian was cut down with the axe of Ufwine and spoke words which I will never forget even though the old faith fall from my heart like rotten threads and my soul drift alone into the empty halls of my ancestors unloved and forsaken. Words which will warm me even after the last ember of Rome will have turned to ash forever . . .

**SeniorBatavianHorse** · January 06, 2008, 06:08 AM

The Oration of Allobich

(We are lucky in that preserved in another document - the remarkable Byzantine assemblage known as the Chronicalia Thespasia Codex No.47- lies the speech of Allobich made that Autumn 414AD outside the walls of Augusta Vindelicorum. Nothing was really known about the context of the speech in the past other than it being an example of the military oratorio. The Manuscript E now allows us to see the speech in its full context and appreciate it in greater depth.

It is late Autumn and the Gothic hordes under Alaric are flooding westwards along the shores of upper Italy and into Gaul. Ahead of them lies the entourage of the newly-elected emperor while the hills to the north are infested with bandits and bacaudae. It must have seemed to those little inhabitants of Raetia Secunda that ironically their province was an oasis of security - thanks in no small part to the efforts of Allobich and Posthumus Dardanus in honouring the remit of Honorius. The latter has been responsible for the civilian administration of the provinces and has also been active in recruiting new members into the depleted limitanei. Already, the re-constituted unit named the ‘Ursariensium’ or the ‘Bears’ stationed at Guntiae, a regiment of light infantry, has been re-enrolled back up to full strength and work proceeds apace on rebuilding the remaining limitanei. A full harvest has finally been brought in to the walls of the town for the first time in many years and traders are beginning to travel once more along the few roads which traverse the Alpine passes.

It is all a false security, though, and Allobich knows this. One morning, with early frosts on the ground and a watery sun low on the horizon, he assembles all the garrisoned troops on the drill field beyond the walls and, on a raised dais, gives perhaps the most important speech of his life.

. . . We have seen much in the few years we have fought and travelled together, my fellow soldiers, stationed here in the Raetias so far from the olive groves and old temples around Rome. We have scoured the barbaricum in that great crossing of the Danube and held the Alemanni by the throats in their own lairs. We have marched across the Rhine itself and cornered the tyrant’s men at Mons Arcades, a feat worthy of renown and honour. We have swept the traitors from our own midst and emerged worthy to hold aloft the arms of Rome herself. What can we not accomplish now, I ask, here before the walls of ancient Vindelicorum? Here, before the men of the old III Italica and the men of the Senior Lions, two legions worthy to hold aloft the old eagles of Caesar and Octavian, I ask what deeds can we not do together? I am your Magister, without me you are nothing. You are the legions of Rome, without you I am nothing. We are Rome. We are the bundle of twigs forever wrapped in strength and honour. We hold the edge and the boundary of Rome herself here where the mighty Danube carves her path east to the distant Euxine Sea and we stand at this edge with a sword in our hands and valour in our hearts. But now that is not enough, my fellow soldiers. As we stand here fulfilling our duty to Rome, the city itself and all who dwell in her has fallen into ruin. Italy stands in ashes. The olive groves have been cut down. The aqueducts shattered. The great villas of the Ausonii, the Serevenii, and the Catulii, all now no more than charred shells. Our Augustus is dead, the eldest son of the great Theodosius himself butchered by the barbarians of Alaric, the sacker of Rome itself. And now our new Augustus, Constantius Flavius, married to the daughter of Theodosius, is himself harried by these barbarian Goths. Our new Augustus, spurned by the Gauls under their own tyrant and spurned by the jealous intrigues of the court at Constantinople, is in danger of being slaughtered as Honorius was slaughtered even as we guard this limes with the fidelity of the old Romans under Marius and Sulla and Caesar himself. So I ask you, my fellow soldiers, what should we do, as Rome crumbles into ruin? What should we do as our emperor rides to his doom and all the world seems to mock us? What should we who have ever stood our ground do now?

(History, of course, does not record the response of these men nor does Manuscript E enlighten us either. Given what happened next, however, we can posit with some confidence that Allobich’s carefully crafted words had the desired effect for some days later we have notes detailing the assembling of a taskforce and its subsequent march south through the Alpine passes at speed to get ahead of the early snows. In a surprising turn of events, it seems that the Goth, Allobich, weary of waiting for word from the new Augustus and determined to take the initiative, advances south to attempt to impede the advance of Alaric into the Gallic diocese.

The men of the III Italica together with the Senior Honorian Horse - and we should not be surprised at this choice for the name of this emperor is now gaining prestige thanks to the manner of his death - and the unnamed Palatine units (Escher’s the Eighth) all proceed swiftly through the narrowing passes as the first snows fall. It is on this march that word arrives by fast courier from a over-stretched Drusus Magnus in the barbaricum that all overtures to the eastern Romans by his own office have been rejected out of hand. The armies of Theodosius II under Aspar will not be halted as long as Constantius Flavius remains wearing the purple. We imagine that Allobich is not surprised by this news and that in his mind events are coming to a head in the collision between Alaric, Constantius Flavius and the forces of Constantine in Gaul. It is also obvious that the Magister Equitum - ever active and bold - is gambling that this thrust south back beyond the Alps will redeem what little honour is still attached to the name of Rome in the eyes of the wider world.

It is, however, ever the case with history that no design by man remains untested and so it is that deep in the snowy passes as the Roman force slowly moves in good order and with high spirits, its dragons fluttering in the chilly breeze and the men's breath hanging like a mist, that word arrives that the Goths have found and assaulted the Augustus and that a great battle was about to be joined.)

**SeniorBatavianHorse** · January 20, 2008, 07:52 AM

The Battle of the Campus Oralicus

Day 2

Initial estimates which had placed Alaric and the main Goth horde days behind Filimer had obviously been wrong. As the scouts galloped back through the evening bringing updates, it appeared that word of his cousin’s death had prompted Alaric to march on the Roman emperor with a vengeance. It must be remembered that Alaric has failed in practically all his enterprises since his early involvement with Stilicho years ago - and that now with the death of Filimer frustration and anger has finally taken its toll. Modern scholars agree that the sack of Rome was not the chaotic pillaging of a rampant barbarian but the carefully orchestrated plundering which occurred as a result of Honorius’ intransigence. Alaric’s main aim all along has seem to be a negotiated settlement of his Goths (who, it must be remembered, have been wandering since Adrianople all those years ago) in rich land close to the centre of imperial power. It was the frustration of these wishes which finally led to the three sieges of Rome and its final sacking. Now, marching west into the rich diocese of Gaul, Alaric seems bent on finding a natural home for his many tribes and their attendants and is aware that imperial power has thwarted him on too many occasions. Constantius Flavius unwittingly presents a tempting target on whom to vent his anger.

Our primary sources for the following day’s battle remain Zosimus, Hydapius and the solitary epistle from Aegidio to the Gallic bishop, Silvanus at Arelate, preserved in Sidonius Appolinarius’ Book II. The latter epistle is remarkable in that it comes from a reformed lower ranking officer who has converted to Christianity under the patronage of Silvanus. The latter clearly sees this Aegidio as suffering penance for his past and part of that penance has involved a detailing of his sins and errors for the bishop’s literary indulgence. Escher posits that this Aegidio must have been the Primicerius of the Twentieth, the late Roman equivalent to the old Primus Pilus of the Augustan legion. This senior ex-ranker, still waiting to be selected to enter the Domestic Protectors and receive an officer’s commission, was in many ways equivalent to today’s Colour Sergeant or Sergeant Major, if we take the late Roman legion of 1000 to 1,200 men to be similar in tactical size and function to a battalion in the British army. It is clear that Aegidio is not a Tribunes Vacans, a graduate of the Domestic Protectors still awaiting a commission, yet his knowledge of the battle and military details must have placed him high up the ranking ladder, nonetheless.

After a restless night in which the wounded were either tended to, placed on carts and dispatched west towards the little nearby vicus of Ratiomentum (otherwise unknown save for this reference), or put out of their pain, the morning brought light rain which turned the newly fallen snow into mush. Already, outriders of the Goths were seen in the distance among the irregular outlines of the strange rock formations. Zosimus makes it plain that Constantius Flavius, exhausted from a night spent in prayer and vigil, made no attempt to speak to the weary men of the Twentieth and instead sought refuge in the ranks of his guard cavalry, detailing the lines of the legion to Severianus and his staff. Hydapius excuses the emperor on the grounds of his tiredness and goes out of his way to detail Constantius’ long night in his campaign tent under the watchful eyes of the priests and their solemn hymns. This image of the emperor, kneeling and devout before the day of battle, has been one which has caught the popular imagination of artists throughout western Europe, from Titian’s ‘Pieta at the Oralicus’, to John William Waterhouse’s ‘Constantius Alone Among The Hymns’ and has remained ensconced in our popular imagination as an icon of the final days of Rome replete with romanticism and elegiac tones. It is interesting, in this context, to note Aegidio’s epistle which makes very clear that far from fasting and praying through the night, the Augustus was in fact anxiously attempting to make arrangements to flee along with the wounded and only the severe (living up to his name in an English pun) words of the Tribune Severianus curtailed his abandonment of the legion. In the hagiography of Constantius Flavius, Aegidio’s epistle is often over-looked as a guilt-ridden man’s fantasy yet a close reading makes it clear that far from wallowing in blame the writing in fact demonstrates a clear vision and grasp of a situation in which many of his friends and fellow-soldiers died but from which he survived. In the light of Manuscript E and Allobich’s obvious distaste for the emperor, Escher and myself now regard Aegidio’s writings as factual beyond the penance required by Silvanus and suggest that both Zosimus and Hydapius have gilded the lily, as it were.

Regardless, as the sun dawns over the rocks of the Oralicus, and the rain falls in thin strips from above, the Roman emperor moves off to the left of the main lines with the cavalry - his own guard and what remains from the other units. Out of earshot, and all on foot, the British Tribune walks among his tired and wounded men with Aegidio, it seems from his writing, in close attendance. There is no formal oratio in the manner of Allobich only sparse words to men long known and cherished. Little details are picked upon as Severianus moves among them: a draco standard now battered and covered in dried blood; a helmet crest rent and torn; the dented and cracked shields of the Twentieth sporting the blue star on a red background, all now dusty and muted; a shared joke here and a sharp word or two there; a hand clasped in friendship and honour. As the horizon in the distance becomes muted with the dust of the arriving barbarians, Severianus gives out the final orders for the disposition of the lines and then takes his place among the front ranks of his old Brigantes and Cornovii. Nearby is the Aquilfier of the Twentieth holding aloft the golden eagle standard once blessed by the hand of Octavian himself over four hundred years in the past. This Aquilfier has been ordered not to let the imperial eagle fall into the hands of the barbarians not matter what happens.

The Goths of Alaric spread out across the broken ground and immediately detached a huge force of horse off to Roman left, where the emperor is rallying his cavalry. The main warbands and skirmishing lines advance slowly towards the Twentieth’s stoic ranks, and up and down the lines can be heard the shouts of the Ducenarii and Centenarii to hold the line and look to the dragon standards. The rain falls incessantly and many men raise their grizzled faces up into it to bathe in its cooling brush even as a dryness grips their throats. It is then that Severianus’ voice echoes all along the lines bidding them all to remember their honour and their homes; to hold true to Rome; to show these barbarians the mettle of a Roman death on the end of a Roman sword. A great roar rises up at those few words as the legionaries from Deva in the north of Britain, used to fighting the woad of the Picts and Scotti, close ranks and lock shields.

The second day of battle at the Campus Oralicus begins

**SeniorBatavianHorse** · January 20, 2008, 11:48 AM

All Among The Bones of the Oralicus

We know that the left wing cavalry under Constantius advanced to challenge the skirmishers who had ridden out to flank the Roman lines. Aegidio is unflattering in his description of this action and how it left the Twentieth exposed on its left side. Mulvaney, in his analysis of the battle, remains unconvinced by Aegidio’s words and draws attention to the dangerous move of the Goth cavalry. Had they managed to flank the left, the legion would have been exposed to harassing fire from the rear. A potentially dangerous position. Regardless, this move on Constantius’ part in effective marks the formal opening of the battle and precipitates a general cavalry action far over on the legion’s extreme left, deep in the broken ground.

This skirmishing action continues for some time as the main Goth force advances inexorably across the uneven plains of the Oralicus. The elite Roman guard cavalry, fighting under the eyes of the emperor himself, make easy work of the light barbarian cavalry but numbers tell against them and eventually something dangerous occurs. According to Aegidio, the Goths fell back before the onslaught of the Romans but were able to maintain their ranks so that Constantius urged his cavalry ever on after them. One wonders if the emperor is carried away by the fighting and thinks if victory might just be his after all. The consequence, as the Tribune soon realises, is a widening gap between the edge of his ordines and the Roman cavalry. A gap the Goths under Alaric in the main van are not slow to seize upon.

It was now that the main barbarian forces advanced to missile range and began peppering the Romans with wave after wave of javelins and light spears. Severianus countered with his own battery of missiles from the rear ranks of the legion lines and soon the air between the two sides was peppered with the sound of hissing javelins and arrows. Here, the discipline of the Romans hold fast. Under the watchful eye of the line officers, the soldiers remained secure behind their large oval scutums, all locked tight against each other. The senior non-coms and file-closers sweated to maintain order all the while as the missiles hissed and thudded about them. Over all, the proud eagle remained high and glinting under the light silver rain. There is a sense from Aegidio here of resolve: that the legion would never crumble in such a fight. It would always stand firm under the rain of barbarian death. It was not to last, though. At some point, Alaric must have realised that the Roman lines would not melt before the withering fire and so he ordered a general charge across the slush and snow. Thousands of Goths and attendant barbarians surged forwards behind a final wave of javelins straight into the meshed shields of the Twentieth. At the last moment, with sharp Latin commands holding the men in place as the Goths came ever on, a single cornu brayed out and with a loud cry the men of northern Britain threw a final devastating short-range volley straight into the oncoming horde and then drew spathas, even as the two sides crashed together like crimson waves.

Severianus was heard to curse the lack of cavalry support as the Goths rose up around him in the centre of the front line, over the din of the fighting. Not a few legionaries heard that curse and glanced over towards their left to see the far distant standards of the Roman horse embroiled still with the skirmishing cavalry even as Alaric’s Goths massed through the widening gap on that flank. It was at this point that Constantius Flavius must have realised the plight he was in for he ordered the cavalry to about face and attempt to fight its way back to the left-flank of the Roman line. Almost as one, the guard cavalry and the remaining members of the other units wheeled about and cut their way free of the Goth cavalry, rallying to the standards and tuba cries as they did so. Behind them, they left a mangled carpet of corpses all twisted in the slush. To the cries of ‘imperator, imperator’, these few proud men hacked and cut their way to the figure of the Augustus, his purple cloak all stained with a deeper purple now, and then together cantered as best they could back towards the distant lines of the Twentieth, all entangled now with the barbarians of Alaric.

As with all elegies and paeans to the fallen, there almost always seems a slow inevitable dance into death which, while beautiful and endowed with grace, is never anything but doomed. So it is on this field called Oralicus as the men of the Twentieth, that old Legion removed from Britain by Stilicho, fight on with vigour and courage even as the cavalry under their emperor battles to reach them amid an ever widening field of Goths. Aegidio likens it to a raft struggling to make shore yet slowly pulled away from it as the tides reach in and flood the space between them. Men among the left flank ordines look to Severianus in desperation as the cavalry under Constantius seem to almost float away behind a sea of barbarians, willing him to order them to break off, form a ‘boar’s head’, and batter their way to the rescue but the Tribune remains resolute. He knows it would be suicide and now all his thoughts remain focused on the Twentieth alone; that legion which had defended Britain for centuries and had seen too many emperors for him to sacrifice the legion in vain now for one more. So the Twentieth remained in its place as the cavalry were swamped and then vanished from view one standard after another. No one saw the emperor fall into that wine-press. No one saw his death amid his bleeding guards. No one saw whether he fought like a ‘Honorius’, as some now commented, or fell in that anonymous shuffle of bodies, unremarked and unknown. What is known is that eventually the Roman cavalry could no longer be seen and all that remained were the yelling Goths who tossed the captured standards high into the drizzling air, roaring with victory.

It was then that Severianus raised himself above the rim of his hacked scutum and shouted out that Constantius was dead. Barbarians had brought down a Roman emperor in the very presence of the old Twentieth, ever Valiant and Victorious, under the eyes of its eagle and the proud emblem of the ancient boar, ever its guardian, the Twentieth raised by Octavian himself all those years ago, the Twentieth, which had routed the rebels under Boudicca under Agricola and won battle honours under another commander, Massallinus, despite being at half-strength, the Twentieth, which had never known defeat. Aegidio records that at that precise moment, even as the Tribune roused his men with valorous words, a Frankish throwing axe sliced into his helmet and brought him low into the slush and crimson at his feet, mortally wounded. For one stunned moment, the Legion was frozen in shock, even as the Goths maintained a relentless assault upon its lines. A cry went out that the Tribune was down and Aegidio wrote that that news wrought more pain upon the men of the Twentieth than ever did the death of Constantius.

What followed next was the death of the Twentieth as all its men fought to rally about their dying commander. The ordered lines collapsed and even the Ducenarii and Centenarii gave up on maintaining discipline. In the fall of a single man, a Roman legion dissolved and in its place arose a loyal band of brothers who fought on only to seek vengeance and join Severianus in a last embrace of death. It was an embrace Alaric was only too willing to give.

It is rare in the annals of Roman history to discover the end of a legion especially at the twilight of the empire as so many of them withered and faded away; all their honours and proud history becoming nothing more than dim tales and soon-to-be-forgotten stories. Here, at least, thanks to the words of Aegidio, who remained one of the few to survive that slaughter and live with that guilt in such a way that only Silvanus could aid him to burden it, we know when and where one such legion met its doom. And it is true to say that if many of the legions of the late Roman empire unravelled through lack of money and training and discipline, one at least did not, here on the broken plains of the Oralicus, amid the shrieks and bitter cries of barbarians. One legion remained true to its eagle and went down into a bloody defeat, its spirit unbroken and unyielding, fighting all alone around the dying figure of a commander it regarded as equal to any who had ever commanded it in its long and illustrious past. Fighting as one and fighting as free.

No wonder Aegidio remained alone and bitter for the rest of his life in that little cell of the monastery run by Silvanus, bearing scars no mark on his hide could ever compete with: the memories of all his fallen brethren on that broken plain, and the sight of his Tribune cut down in the middle of his last oration on the field of battle.

**SeniorBatavianHorse** · January 27, 2008, 01:07 PM

The Twelfth Consilium

Ante Diem Tertium Idus September

(Three days before the Ides of September, i.e: 13th of September)

By the high waters of the Eridanus, also known as the Padus to the vulgar, among the little vicii of the ancient Insubres, word came to us of the defeat of the Twentieth and the fall of our Augustus. Constantius was slain, cut down by the Goths of Alaric, the sacker of Rome. Our little column of Roman soldiers and cavalry halted for the day not far from the old town of Placentia, near where the Trebia flumen pours into the Eridanus, and our Magister convened a desperate consilium in the wide red leather of his campaign tent. I remember Allobich standing before us, all the assembled officers of the III Italica and the Senior Honorian Horse, his face weary and drained. We had been marching for a week through the early snows on the Alpine passes in a desperate attempt to bring aid to an emperor, in truth, none of us cared for. We had come nonetheless because this man, Allobich, had reminded us it was our duty as we had stood outside the walls of Augusta Vindelicorum. It was our duty as Romans to stand by our Augustus, under the divine grace of God. Now, the emperor was dead and our whole empire hung in the balance.

It was a chilly morning, with a sharp wind biting into the leather sides of the campaign tent and short flurries of snow swirling around the entrance flaps. Inside, iron braziers hissed like penned demons and despite their reluctant glow, we wrapped ourselves deep into the thick folds of our military cloaks. My fingers were numbed around my ivory stylus as I strove to capture the quick words spat out around me. Agricola spoke first and wondered on the fate of the empire now that Constantius was dead. The Tribune of the Senior Honorian Horse rose up and pointed out that Ulfilas was now the senior Roman general in the Gauls and that much power would fall into his hands as a result. The commander of the Palatine troops demurred, saying that now that Alaric was heading into the Gauls, Ulfilas was beset on all sides by foes. Lugudunum was a bolt-hole, no more. Allobich agreed with him and asked all present on whether we should turn back through the Alpine passes to Raetia Secunda or brave the journey south and west along the ancient Eridanus to confront Alaric in an attempt to stave off his invasion of the Gauls . . .

Only the sudden blast of the wind greeted his words and the tent shook as if all the demons and devils of Dis itself were outside. To travel on? To face a man who had sacked Rome, the Eternal City itself, and now slain our emperor? I felt a chill creep down my spine despite the thick Atrebatic wool in which I was cocooned. Allobich stood before us, bathed in an infernal glow from a brazier, his golden hair aflame with sparks, and seemed to watch each and every one of us in turn. For a moment, I instinctively looked north beyond the growing snows and the slowly filling passes back to the small valleys and pastures of our little province, bounded by the mighty Danube and limes of Rome, with its square castra and Liburnian galleys muzzling the sluggish waters, ever alert. I looked north and in my heart pined for my home - even as the men around me, all equally worn and thin, mouthed the few words which sent us south and west, away from the limes we had sworn to protect. Allobich took those few words, almost lost to the wind, and gave out orders for the march in column down along the military road to Placentia and the crossing of the Eridanus.

The next morning, as the men assembled in their ordines and wrapped up tight against the bitter wind, riders galloped out of the east and hurriedly dismounted before the Magister and his entourage of staff officers and guards. The lead rider shouted out through the weariness of his ride that Salona had fallen to the eastern Romans under Aspar, and that the even as he spoke, the soldiers of Theodosius were marching in triumph up the coast of Illyricum towards the Italies. Cursing, Allobich flung himself into his saddle and galloped ahead of us all, deep into the falling snow and dancing wind, seeming almost to vanish like a wraith into the elemental fury. We struggled in all our clumsiness to catch up with him with the legionaries and the cavalry toiling in his wake.

**SeniorBatavianHorse** · February 05, 2008, 10:35 AM

The Bella Gothica

(It is late in November, 414 AD, and Allobich has brought the remnants of the limitanei and the field army detailed to protect that fragile province of Raetia Secunda south into the Po valley, near the old town of Placentia, at the crossing of what the notaries call in a typically archaic fashion the Eridanus river, or the Po. We cannot imagine what is going through the minds of the Romans as reports filter in to them about the collapse of the western empire. Gaul is in flames. Hispania all but lost. The Vandals have crossed over into Africa and are pillaging their way eastwards to Carthage and the remnants of the imperial field forces there. The Romans of Theodosius under Aspar are marching north and west up the Adriatic shores to the top of the Italian peninsula. Most of Italy itself is lawless and given over to petty brigands, escaped slaves, and troops who have deserted from the standards. Rome remains riven with usurping senators all grasping at the purple and all failing in their hubris to hold onto it. The Augustus is slain on the field of battle before even the memory of Honorius has faded into legend and honour. And what does Allobich do? He marches his little band of Romans straight into the lion’s teeth; towards the hordes of Goths under Alaric.

But all is not dire news. In those drab days of march as they move out from the last shadows of the Alps and onto the broad Po valley, messengers arrive with news that Ulfilas has beaten back an assault upon Lugudunum by the forces of the usurper, Constantine, but with much loss, and that in a brilliant stroke of strategy, Valens, the Comes Domestic Peditum, ensconced in Sirmium, has sprung out of his fortress town and routed a force of eastern Romans back into Singidunum, modern day Belgrade, which he is now besieging. This desperate counter-attack by Valens has exposed the flank of the advancing eastern Romans and given them a short, sharp, shock. All of which leaves Allobich still alone along the banks of the Po river as he advances to meet the Goths . . . )

. . . We toiled like sheep before the mercy of God’s will, our standards torn and ragged, our spirits low, and our bodies numb as the frost which covered our leather tents every morning. We moved now in the wake of the barbarians and utter devastation was their mark. Villas were ruined. The fields despoiled. The little towns now more than empty shells stained with the smell of burning and rotting. In the distance, deep in the woods that we passed, we could occasionally see small bands of fugitives, clasping what little goods they had been able to carry away from the barbarians under Alaric. They were too frightened to approach us and truth be told we had little mercy to give them save God’s prayers. Our supplies were scant and now we scavenged like animals to gather fodder for the horses and the mules, and meat or oats for the men. We were thin, like reeds, and cold, so very cold.

Word came to us that the bacaudae were ensconced in the hills to the north and west, errant Roman soldiers who had turned their backs to the standards and taken to brigandage; or rebellious senators who had hired out bands of warriors to defend their estates from both the Goths and Roman law. Allobich despised these men and swore to put their heads upon pikes before the camp gates if we ever caught them. Winter fell upon us like a bitter blanket and with it came a savage wind down from the distant mountains. I saw men with chapped fingers and bandages across their noses on the march, all wrapped up in their meagre military cloaks. I too shivered with them all and only God’s grace and mercy kept me warm as we trudged weary mile after weary mile along the banks of the Eridanus towards what we all knew would be our end . . .

. . . He rode like Alexander upon Bucephalus at the head of the Roman troops and I doubt if a more desperate figure had ever rode beside these ancient waters. I looked upon Allobich and saw all his misery and pain and also all his anger and fire, and wondered on this strange man who fought now so tenaciously for Rome when all around us tore at it like rabid dogs over a morsel. He was driven like Alexander was driven but whereas the Macedonian strived to create an empire, this man strove with all his blood to preserve one. And I know not which is the more heroic.

An odd thing happened on that march, as we moved ever away from our little province and Augusta Vindelicorum, for the colder we became as the snows fell and the ice gnawed at our bones in the night, the more a dark fire burned in Allobich’s eyes. A fire I had never seen before and an anger which burned away all his humour and mockery. He rode atop his dark horse clad in the armour of Rome and eyed the wrecked world we passed like an angry god. And I began to fear him for the first time. I looked not upon a man, a Roman general with Gothic blood, but on the old fury of myth, a vengeful spirit or genius, who carried a weeping goddess upon his shoulder, her hair all unkempt and her tunic riven by blunt hands. And Allobich rode ever on in the wake of the Goths upon his dark horse, his golden hair glinting with an unearthly fire, as Roma wept her immortal tears upon his neck and whispered unrelenting words into his vengeful soul. At night, in my little tent, I shivered not from the unending cold, but from a new fear. The fear of what this man would do if he ever caught up with Alaric and could glut this vengeance She whispered like poisoned honey into his ears . . .

(On the Kalends of December, as the Comitatus of Allobich advanced to cross the Po river, word reached him that the Goths had halted and were turning to engage his little force. So began the battle of the Eridanus Flumen and a turning point in history . . . )

**zznɟ ǝɥʇ** · January 06, 2008, 10:16 AM

Ambushes always seem to cause more harm that good...I am eager to see how Constantius manages it.

**SeniorBatavianHorse** · January 12, 2008, 10:13 AM

The Battle of the Campus Oralicus

(Every schoolchild and student of Roman history is familiar with the battle fought on the shattered plains of the Oralicus; and there are several worthy commentaries and studies of note. Both Escher and myself feel that the inclusion here of the battle between the Roman emperor and the Goths under Alaric is necessary given the move south by Allobich and the III Italica and the Senior Honorian Horse. Those wishing to pursue further study into this conflict should consult Mommsen’s monumental work ‘In The Beak of Destiny: The Clash of Roman and German’ - particularly chapters’ fifteen and sixteen; and also Sturgeon Wilson’s less academic but infinitely more readable ‘Oralicus: The Turning Point of Rome’. The source material is also readily available through modern translations on the internet.

On September 6, 414AD, therefore, deep in the plain of the Oralicus (see Pfeltzer’s etymology on the meaning of the Latin here), a region in modern France still remarked upon for its uneven ground and odd boulder configurations, the small column of Constantius Flavius, consisting of the remaining elements of the old XX Valeria Victrix, now know as the Praesidienses legion after the fortress of Deva in Britain; and some guard units of cavalry, sights the lead elements of a Gothic column under Filimer, a cousin of Alaric himself. Light snow obscures much of the broader topography and it seems that Constantius Flavius, ever hot-headed and proud, determines an immediate assault upon the Goths - the latter seem surprised by the presence of the Romans and historians have concluded that Filimer was not so much hunting down the Romans as acting as advance guard for the main barbarian host days in the rear, under Alaric.

The old Twentieth, under the command of the Tribune, Severianus, deploys in a wide line with the lighter troops and archers to the rear, with the flanks guarded by the cavalry. Constantius himself stations his personal escort riders on the right flank and urges the lines to advance to contact with all haste. There is some dispute among scholars regarding the actual site of the battle on the Oralicus plains but the general consensus is that a league south of the modern farmhouse known as Vill’ sur Eschgonne, where many relics of battlefield debris have been found, is where the main fighting which followed took place.

We know that the snow eased off through the morning even as the main lines made contact and that the broken ground hindered somewhat the Goths from deploying properly as the Roman infantry advanced to missile range and then closed to shield-contact. Zosimus alludes to the uphill struggle of the Twentieth and that their experience in fighting Picts and Scotti in the north-west of Britain aided them in the terrain, and also that he vindicates their commanding officer, Severianus, and his bond with these men, drawn from the old tribes of the Cornovii, or the ‘Horned Ones’, and the Brigantes.

As the main legion lines made contact in the snow and the Goths under Filimer were milling in confusion attempting to form shield-walls and rally to their standards, the Roman cavalry under Constantius, swept around the Roman right wing and rolled up the barbarians. On the left flank, the remaining Roman guard cavalry were advancing at speed and pinning the Goths there who were unable to deploy effectively as a result.

What followed, according to Zosimus and Hydapius, was a bitter struggle in the centre as the snow turned into crimson mush and bodies choked the ground. Severianus, standing tall, surrounded by his staff officers and leading non-coms, urged his legionaries ever on with the memory of the sacking of Rome and the proud lineage of these Britons whose martial vigour knew no equal. Here, under the old standards of the Twentieth, Valeria Victrix, the swords flashed like serpent’s tongues and the arrows arced overhead with regular precision. To the right, the emperor himself led his cavalry deeper into the milling Goths and proceeded to pin them against the legion lines without respite. Both Zosimus and Hydapius mention how bitter the fighting was and most historians conclude that even though the Goths were not able to deploy effectively their fighting abilities were not severely hindered. We should also remember that Alaric has had access to Roman arms factories for many years, if not decades now, and that this is not a simple clash between Roman legionary and fur-clad barbarian. Quite the opposite, in fact. In terms of equipment and dress, there would be little to distinguish the combatants from each other save in martial prowess and discipline. And this is where the Twentieth came into her own. Garrisoned for over three hundred and fifty years on the north-west border of the diocese of Britain, while prior to that having seen action in Pannonia and along the Rhine, this legion was one of the oldest and most revered by those who knew her in the entire empire. Formed by Octavian himself and a veteran of the battle of Actium, it is to be doubted if a legion in the late empire could own battle honours equal to the Twentieth’s. Now, under the eyes of an emperor in the field, and inspired by a Tribune who clearly knew how to drive his men, these British legionaries, among the snow and broken ground of Oralicus, drove hard into the Gothic ranks fuelled by their oaths to Rome and their honour and love of the Twentieth’s Eagle standard.

We do not know how long the Goths held their lines or why they broke when they did but with Roman cavalry on both flanks and the legion lines driving deeper into the centre, it was only a question of time. Filimer himself was hemmed in by cavalry and infantry and hacked down with no quarter given - an act which only Hydapius condemns. In the rout which followed, Zosimus, in particular, draws to his readers’ attention the slaughter inflicted upon the Goths by the Romans, and also on the surviving clibinarius officer who ranged far and wide over the plains hacking down any barbarians he could find. By mid-day, with the battle over and the wounded being tended to, Constantius Flavius raised a dais and addressed the exhausted but victorious troops. Arrayed about him were the dragons of the soldiers and the old battered Eagle of the Twentieth. He spoke praising their courage and valour and likened them to the soldiers of Caesar and Trajan, and then he delivered a promise to these Britons from Deva and the provinces of Britannia Secunda and Valentia that Rome would never forget their valour here on the Oralicus and that the name of the Praesidienses would live on forever in the annals of Rome. Despite their fatigue and wounds, the men of the Twentieth acclaimed their emperor who stood beneath the shining wings of the Eagle.

Even as the shouts died down scouts arrived back with snow flying from the hooves of their horses with word that Alaric himself was bearing down upon them with a vast host of Goths. Vengeance was his intent and the wings of his gods themselves seemed to aid his speed. And as every schoolboy and student of late Roman history knows, the next morning began the second day of the Battle of the Campus Oralicus . . .

**bomberboy** · January 12, 2008, 12:28 PM

Good Updates I've been reading them for a while now.

**zznɟ ǝɥʇ** · January 12, 2008, 01:30 PM

I was trying to think of a word that could describe my emotions after seeing this victory and then seeing Alaric attacking...all I could come up with is "eeep!"

It fits, I think.

**SeniorBatavianHorse** · January 12, 2008, 03:09 PM

Constantius Flavius' reaction was luckily recorded via the panegyric of Pinarius and can best be summed up with the polite paraphrase: sacred defecation.