[IB AAR] At The Limes

[Templar Knight]

is this AAR ever going to be updated, because it is really good

[julianus heraclius]

is this AAR ever going to be updated, because it is really good

SBH is very busy with family matters at the moment. I'm sure when he has more time he will give us the next instalment.

Cheers

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Yes, thanks for covering for me, JH, but time is very pressed at the moment. I will return to this as the story is far from finished but I don't have time to do it justice at the moment!

[Jingles]

I've dipped into this AAR every now and again, but now my exams are finished I've decided to spend an entire morning (starting at 9AM of course ) reading this epic from the start. Wish me luck

[Antiochos VII Sidetes]

I might just do this as well...

Looks very promising.

[zznɟ ǝɥʇ]

Hey SBH, hope things are going well and all is well with you and your family. Miss you around here.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Thanks, Fuzz. It's all settling down now (if that's the word, really). Tomorrow should see 'At The Limes' updated and back to a more regular posting. Look forward to seeing you online sometime soon? A feel you owe me a re-match or is it the other way round???

[Juvenal]

A wonderful day - great to see you back SBH.

I am still very concerned for the health of Bonifacius, given the high rate of attrition among Roman Emperors recently.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

We can only pray that the old gods show him a kinder face than of late!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

The defeat of Alaric by the Eridanus Flumen in the winter of 414 AD shattered the unity of the Goths and drove several bands of survivors eastwards and to the south in disarray. Little is know, of course, of the squabbles each chieftain fell into with his companions but both Cassiodorus’ narrative and in particular Hinkley’s outstanding research recently reveals bitter infighting and an alarming haemorrhaging of barbarians from the standards. It is a testament not only to Allobich’s daring in marching south from Augusta Vindelicorum with so few troops but also his reputation as the slayer of Alaric that brought so much panic into the barbarian ranks. Cassiodorus has always maintained the fiction that Alaric’s death was inevitable and that already several chieftains had been vying for power within the Gothic ranks. This suited his narrative line and also appeased the Gothic elements present in the court at Ravenna when he wrote his history of the Goths. Hinkley, in being the first major scholar to challenge this line, argues with good evidence that in fact Alaric’s fall was catastrophic and unexpected. The shock waves ruptured Gothic unity and the whole host fell into several disparate elements which even the proclaiming of Athaulf as rex failed to unify. ‘Manuscript E’ at last provides some corroboration to Hinkley’s thesis and finally places Cassiodorus in his right ideological perspective.



It is without question that the battles along the Eridanus were momentous at a strategic level and it would not be remiss to claim Allobich a place alongside Julian at Argentoratum or even Belisarius before Carthage. However, both Escher and myself agree that within the wider landscape of the western Roman empire it was by no means a decisive blow. The Numantian Chronicle, written in Alexandria, records the defeat of a Roman army west along the African coast - overrun by Vandal hordes now moving east towards Carthage - and it can be conjectured that in fact the reign of the new Augustus, Bonifacius, began with that defeat and not the death of Alaric as subsequent panegyrics claim. The eastern Romans under Sarus and Aspar make devastating advances west and north up through Illyricum towards the vital city of Ravenna and the latter itself we know from contemporary hagiographic accounts and recent digs labours under a severe plague.



That is also not to forget the usurping Romans in Gaul and Britain and the ever-present Burgundian and Alemannic tribes ever watchful across the Rhine and Danube limes.

However, having said that, within the remit of ‘Manuscript E’ and the notaries who ever labour in recording the events around the province and of Allobich himself, it must be confessed that the Eridanus limes, as it were, was a decisive event without parallel in the memories of the Romans present. Words from historians such as ourselves will never be able to do justice to the feelings and emotions of those survivors in the snow and ice, their armour hacked and shields rent, watching the Gothic bodies freeze slowly into a mute epitaph to Roman valour and arms . . .

. . . There is a dawn no man ever sees but as a moment alone and so private no words will ever translate it; a dawn in which a new sun emerges radiant in a diadem of light; a dawn which rises, it must be said, more from within that it does from without. A dawn which is spiritual beyond Sol Invictus himself. It would not be an error to write that on the morning after the last battle, with the dead arrayed about us like leaves from a frozen forest, with the Heliades bent always in an elegiac stoop, and with the river gleaming in a milky ribbon through the valley, not one of us did not touch or see that dawn as the sun rose into the Winter sky. The land we moved through as the little cooking fires arose and dried, stale, bread was broken open, was a land of the dead and even though we raised food to our cracked lips, wiping away dried blood as we did so, we could not but see death in all its forms about us - and yet not one of us did not have a thin smile always upon our faces. We broke our fast - meagre as it was - in a landscape littered with the dead of our foes - of the foes of Roma. What dawn could not but bathe us in a valedictory light, I ask you?

Allobich moved among us all through the day as the watery sun rose higher with his guards and staff officers about him like puppies. Gone was his brooding aspect with which he had awoken - now we knew from the scouts that the Goths were fleeing south and east into the arms of our Roman comrades. A brutal and joyous smile wreathed his features now and it was a smile which spoke of vengeance and glorious fighting to come. I trailed in his wake privileged to be by his side, ever eager to note down his words with my stylus even as I also now carried almost out of habit a spatha by my side. Both burdens I shouldered without complaint.

Everywhere he went men knelt at his passing as if an emperor himself walked among us. I could see that this irked him but on this day of all days he allowed them this affection to him. Even the African officer in his gilded armour with his olive-black eyes smiled in indulgence and was not offended - when in living memory had a Roman general deserved such a triumph? Only towards the end of the day as the sun gilded the tops of the poplars did Allobich strip off his armour and descend into the waters of Eridanus to bath away the grime and blood and fatigue. For one strange moment, in all my pagan fears, as he disappeared beneath the sacred river, I wondered if he would ever return and that perhaps Roma herself would take him away from us . . .

[Jingles]

Excellent update. Having read this from start to the current update, I'd like to say two things:

1. Now you and Juvenal have entered in the AAR competition, I do believe I'm stuffed! My entry doesn't really compare, tbh...

2. I'm beginning to really like the approach of writing an AAR from a historical document. Having just got round to reading I, Claudius (My dad gave me his old copy), it seems yet more appealing.

Keep up the good work.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Thanks for the comments, Jingle_bombs! I love reading all the AARs as they are all different and engaging. I will be popping over to read yours later tonight as I am still catching up somewhat from my absence here at TWC. Looking forward to reading about the Anglo-Saxons, I must say! As for the competition, I originally started this for the last defunct TWC AAR Comp so in a sense I am being a bit cheeky submitting it again . . .

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

. . . The days which followed the demise of Alaric and the Gothic hosts were spent in garnering supplies from the barbarians’ wagons and hunting down what little survivors remained. Slaves were acquired in abundance and thanks to God’s mercy we did not now lack servants to maintain the camps and the temporary fossa, always overlooked by the stern gazes of the Centenarii. Always our sentries watched the horizon and our standards remained high. We were a Roman Comitatus on Roman soil among Romans and yet we could not shake off the expectation of further attack. Wine we now had in abundance - oils, silks, precious stones, and against all our expectations the treasures of Jerusalem once looted some many years ago by Vespasian and Titus. All the pillage and sack of Rome some four long and bitter years ago lay at our feet in the shambles of what had once been Alaric’s camp. I wept to see the gems and gold his barbarians had taken from Roma - the Eternal City and all around me as our soldiers and officers filed past to see these wonders I saw men bow in shame that Roman valour had failed to honour these victory laurels from so long ago.

It was then that Allobich had risen up upon a dais of rough turf clad in fresh armour and draped in a new long cloak of wine-dark materials. In the crook of one arm lay his crested helm and his other hand rested upon his spatha - the one item he had not changed and which still lay encrusted with barbarian blood. He spoke then into our shame and dismay and wondered that we revered such trinkets - mere spoilage of war not worth the remarking on. Had these shiny baubles saved Alaric from his destiny with Roma? Had all the gems and coins here in these tents won him a great victory over the little Roman army from Raetia Secunda - the merest of Roman provinces in the empire? No. They dazzled the eyes and moved the blood but in truth these were but the appearance of pride and honour. Forget them. Rome lives in mens' hearts and pride more than in the surface gleam of metal. I was astonished that this Goth should so speak in such Christian terms and it moved my heart to hear him bid us look to inner glory and not mere external fancies. I saw also that his words cheered our men and many looked not then upon the treasures of Rome but instead into each other and found again the strength which had caused us all to rise up unbidden and march all alone towards that final battle under the bitter sun . . . Amen . . .

. . . On the seventh day after the death of Alaric, as the notaries with a little Christian learning performed sacred rites among the papilio tents, word arrive via tired riders that Aetius and the Romans to the east had found and engaged the new rex of the Goths, Athaulf, near Verona and that in a fierce fight the rex had been humiliated and beaten further east into the low hills north of Ravenna. Further sporadic engagements had depleted what little forces he had left and now it was thought that Athaulf was in hiding in some caves and hidden valleys around the small town of Decentium. Only Theodoric, another minor noble and nominated by Athaulf as his successor - although no love was lost between them - remained to our south with a sizable contingent of Gothic warriors; though we knew in our hearts these forces feared us as the wolves fear a pride of regal lions now. Word also arrived that despite all our fears, the emperor himself with his retinue from Carthage was ashore and in good health, having braved the hostile waters from Africa to Europe with scarcely a single sighting of a Vandal galley. This new burned our hearts and made us smile for joy. It was then that Allobich ordered the commanders of the men to break camp and march down the Roman road towards the coast to finally meet Bonifacius. He sent orders to Aetius to arrive with all dispatch while also providing security for towns and villas near the remaining Gothic forces.

On that day when we finally marched away from the Eridanus Flumen and the ever-bowed Heliades not a single soldier among us did not weep and give prayers to whatever providence ruled his heart.





Four days later as if by divine mandate, among the rubble of the ancient Villa Deciamus, its vine-yards and olive grooves all trampled and ruined, Allobich, Aetius and Bonifacius clasped hands and poured a libation in honour of the dead . . . And I was privileged to hear from all of them in their turn a strange prophecy and a dream in which the fates of Rome - and I use the plural with care - were told . . .

[Juvenal]

The master has returned.

I love the way that each of your narrators suffuses the saga with their unique world view.

Despite this success against the Goths, the shadow of doom still seems to hover just beyond vision. Maybe the recapture of Roma might brighten things up a bit.

Hail Bonifacius!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

In the ‘Anecdota’ of the Pseudo-Marcellus, a brief notice records the meeting of the Augustus with his generals at the ruined villa close by the shore of Etruria and near the old grounds which once bred the Tarquiniae. The notice is bald and lacking detail yet it does contain one curious item often ignored by scholars up till now:

‘ . . . in the low months in the Consulship of Aetius and Gaudentius, Bonifacius convened a consilium with his Magisters in the Villa Deciamus, now fallow, and all attended this meeting with high hopes and full loyalty, even the soothsayers and Etruscan priests . . .’

This is an age ripe with religious discord and fervour, with creeds and heterodoxies springing up faster than even the barbarians, and yet the Pseudo-Marcellus singles out the ancient Etruscan priests alone of all the religious figures who surely attended such an important meeting - the first official convening by the new emperor upon Italian soil. Most up until now have merely dismissed this as archaic rhetoric - glossing the ancient location of the meeting, nothing more. ‘Manuscript E’, however, now provides another version and one it must be said which only adds to the mystery surrounding this meeting.

Alone of all the entries by the various notaries in ‘Manuscript E’ - ‘Probus’, ‘Virgil’ and ‘Florus’ to name the most frequent and understood of them all - this meeting stands out as something singularly important and yet impenetrable to all those who read it. Even our notaries are aware in passing of sitting outside something to a degree - of recording words and actions of which even they have only the dimmest understanding. It is perhaps not inappropriate to remark with all due respect that in this one entry these notes move beyond history and into oracular writing - prophesy, even. Both Escher and myself are in agreement that the entries here must stand intact yet can add very little gloss or addendum to what appears to be a series of vague and elliptical words. It is the most sceptical and least present notary who ironically, given what follows, opens the entries . . .

. . . It is men who write their deeds upon the world and it is the world which suffers them to do so. Not gods nor the piety of saints. To appeal otherwise is naught but vanity. Men alone account to themselves. Even when wrapped up in their delusions. So it was that as the snows began their early melt and the wind blew a briny warmth from out of the ancient Tyrrhenian Sea our Augustus encamped among the ruins of the Deciamus estate, marvelling at the fallen statues, the broken aqueducts and the shattered walls. His tears fell without shame to see the ruin of his empire beneath the heel of the barbarian. Tents were erected then among the old villa’s boundary lines, all billowing in the wind, and the Dragon standards were hoisted high into the untilled earth. We stood and marvelled at the splendour of the emperor’s retinue - all chased gold and pattered silk - while we in our turn stood by in our rent armour and blunt swords. Not a few of us glanced up at the dull eagle of the old III Italica and felt a slow pride to see its fierce eyes roam still over us all, and we remembered the words of Allobich days earlier when we had gazed upon the spoils of Alaric.

Food and wine was carried forth from the galleys at anchor in the bay and soon all our officers and notaries of rank were feasting the health of Bonifacius and celebrating his safe arrival to these shores. Again and again the Augustus bade Allobich and Aetius tell of their exploits and only when our own lord spoke about that march south through the snows and the ice from our little province did the emperor pause as if in an act of piety. This I found strange that a man elevated to the purple by the armies of Africa and by the Senate should so move himself. Such was the superstition which fills men’s hearts. Soon all were addled with the wine and most ambled away at the emperor’s will to fall asleep or sing unquiet songs to the stars. It was then that Bonifacius invited both Aetius and Allobich to walk with him awhile through the ruins - dismissing his guards and only leaving the notaries alone to follow them. There amidst the cracked stones and toppled statues of now forgotten Romans attired in cuirass and laurel wreaths, all three unburdened themselves of words which I scarcely caught at - their import so eluded my stylus. Incense wreathed the early evening air and then old men appeared clad in thread-bare shawls, mumbling sounds in a dead language which raised my hackles more than all the chatter of a barbarian tongue can do - and inside my mind I felt again the old tug of superstition and fable. Mere trappings of those who are afraid to own their own deeds. I wrote but did not understand what came from my stylus . . .

. . . We had not expected to see the Etruscan soothsayers in the ruins, summoned by a glance from the emperor himself, all wreathed in incense, chanting the old litanies and formulae. I instantly recognised them from my youth so long ago spent in the pastures and fields of the old Etruscan highlands above Ravenna and where the ancient rites are still remembered in the folds of the night. Others around me of the Galilean bent recoiled in shock but on seeing the clemency of the emperor regained their composure and I swear even accorded them a little respect. Why should they not? These priests and soothsayers were older than Rome and guardians of her destiny. It is so deep in our blood that even to hear the Etruscan language is to touch the very legacy and history of our empire itself.

Then in a little knot shrouded in the smoke of the incense and the low murmurings of the priests, Bonifacius spoke of a dream and a nightmare which had plagued him all his life. A dream about the fate of Rome and her empire. This vision had never left him as a child and had driven him to seek power in the army and rise among its ranks to grasp at the last the supreme dignity itself - not to fulfil that dream but to avert it. I saw both Aetius and Allobich recoil then in shock and both men went white despite the low bronze of the sunset and the newly lit torches among the ruins. This was a face upon my Goth I had never seen before and my hand trembled then even as it strove to catch all. Aetius spoke first and said he too had a dream which had plagued him all his life and driven him to defend Rome to deny that dream its reality. I could see that his words were a great burden to him and that he had never spoken of such things before now. Both turned to Allobich then and he too nodded and to my amazement said that always in his dreams since he had been a child among his Gothic kin, Rome had harried him with a vision of such torment that he had resolved with all his heart to stem it from entering this world. Silence enveloped these three men save for the low murmur of the Etruscans. Far away the galleys rocked gently as the tide turned and, as if in another world, I could see figures ambling along the shorefront, still cradling wine under their arms.

It was then that Bonifacius bade Aetius speak first and unburden himself of his dream -

The Dream of Aetius

. . . He remembered standing on a shore of such barbaric appearance that it made his chest tighten with fear. Peaks of ice glimmered in the distance and dark woods fringed the shore. He knew that Rome was further away than any Roman could ever hope to reach yet reach it he must. Men waited upon him - soldiers in armour, all tired and wounded. They looked to him for hope and direction and he despite his fear lifted them up and took them into the woods all arrayed in martial splendour. He remembered a journey so long and filled with so much battle and in which friend after friend fell that all hope fled from them save his will alone. He alone lifted them across the roof of the world always showing the way back to Rome and the hearths of their families. Steppes, forests, mountains rose up to bar them but he guided his little expedition through them all until at last all lost and alone they fell one by one in a distant desert under the gleaming lances of a mailed foe which came upon them like an endless river. He remembered weeping alone in the midst of the enemy seeing all his friends cut down to the last and feeling the sand of the desert, its desiccated emptiness, encompass him like an omen. He fell then, the last Roman in the world, failing all those Romans whom he had led over the world . . .



In the silence which followed these words from Aetius, the Etruscans closed slightly in upon us like guards and the incense thickened in the gloom. Bonifacius clasped the shoulders of his companion and I could see that tears gilded his cheeks. Our emperor spoke next and gave us his dream to honour the words of Aetius -

The Dream of Bonifacius

. . . He remembered standing in a square in a Roman city baking in the heat of an African sun. This city was like Carthage but not like Carthage. Men readied themselves around him in tattered armour and clothing. Far away he could hear the sounds of gates being forced open and the squeal of timber breaking and he knew that an end was upon them once and for all. He remembered sitting upon his horse in this square and seeing a triumphal arch, its marble resplendent with carvings of Roman valour and honour, and wondering on the glory of an empire now gone. It was then that smoke and fire enveloped all and through the flames his men, the last of the Romans, fell joyous but doomed into the jaws of death, and it dawned upon him that he alone was given the fate to see an empire itself die. Then he was alone in a sea of licking blades and he knew that even death itself would never erase that shame from his heart . . .



The words of the Augustus chilled my heart. Such horror from so simple a description and a dream that it almost overwhelmed me. For a moment, Bonifacius remained alone and still - far away in his dream watching all his Romans being cut down and the city falling apart in flames - and I wondered on how any man could bear the shame of seeing an empire fall before his very eyes.

Allobich stepped forward then and unclasped the spatha from his military belt. He raised it before the eyes of the emperor and all could see the blood still encrusted upon its hilt and pommel. He spoke then and said that while one single Roman stood to wield this sword Rome would never fall. Here among these shores and in this ancient land a little band of Romans from a small province had avenged the highest wrongs Rome had ever suffered. Imagine what could be done now that our Augustus was among us in all his martial glory?

I saw Bonifacius smile at that and reach out to touch the spatha. Strength seemed to flow back into his face even as the Etruscans around us raised their murmurings. The emperor asked then that Allobich be the last and the most honoured to finally confess his dream, and all of us tensed even as the Goth gathered to himself his counsel.

It was then that an urgent messenger broke in among us - and I could recognise one of the dull iron-coloured men of Felix - scattering the Etruscans in his haste and blurting out without ceremony that Augusta Vindelicorum was besieged by a numberless Alemanni host and that Posthumus Dardanus and the remaining Roman troops would soon all fall if not relieved -

Before even I could comprehend this news I saw Allobich smile like a wolf then and one by one remove the gold solidii from his hair, each coin discarded as though no longer needed. He shook his mane free and turned to his emperor saying that now his dream was a dream no longer . . . His dream and nightmare was come true . . . The stylus fell from my hands and rang upon the cracked marble in the silence which followed.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Correction XXXIX

(This is the last of the addendums pertaining to the Tribune Felix and his men who remained within their shadows deep in the Barbaricum around Raetia Secunda. This entry and its location immediately after the ‘Dreams’ of Aetius, Bonifacius and Allobich shows how well our notaries grasped their doom and the fate of Augusta Vindelicorum. It would not be remiss to say that they knew no other testament would survive such to tell of their courage.)





. . . Oh how we missed your courage and steadfastness, my Magister Equitum, as the snow closed in on the province and the crows circled above us like harbingers of doom. True, you left us in peace and security - the cows lowered in the pens and the stores provided to keep us through the Winter were plentiful. The men of the Senior Lions and the remaining cavalry ordines were ever vigilant, and even the ice-floes on the Danube were of little impediment to the barges and small river flotillas which patrolled with diligence. You marched south through the Alps into the Italies with the III and the men of the Senior Honorian Horse and such soldiers as you deemed worth taking and it was we who thought you were marching to your doom. How wrong we were.

You know my men. They are wolves in the night. All hardened and inured to toil. Not the fallow idleness of wine and roasted beef for these men - few as they may be. These are men to watch your back in the subtle night when shadows seep poison and each creak on the floor or beneath a tree is laced with death. Men whose every relative or wife or son lies dead to a barbarian’s blade. Men who shirk no danger however fierce or unrelenting. You know that, Allobich. They are all dead now. All gone. Gone as if they never existed - Murentius of the many scars, old Scurilio, Maxentianus, and all the rest. Gone into that long night from which no one returns. Soon I will join them no doubt. I have lived far too rough a life not to fall into that darkness. So, one last scroll from out the Barbaricum, my friend, and then farewell. Do not mourn. I have drunk deep and savoured every drop.

It began five days ago deep in the old tracks which cut through the woods south of Argentoratum. Scurilio and two of his lads were escorting old Drusus Magnus back to Augusta Vindelicorum with news that his proposed alliance with the Saxon tribes north of the Lower Rhine had been successful. For seven days they had travelled slowly though the pacified woods around the Alemannic lands, rejoicing in their good fortune. Few barbarians had been seen and those that were had merely been toiling pitifully in the fields. The Barbaricum was empty and silent. That should have been enough to alert them but I imagine the rise of your star, your Fortune, gave them hope for peace and so their guard was down.

It came in the night barely a day’s travel from the limes. Flaming torches arcing over the tents panicking the mules and the horses, volleys of arrows and javelins, and then the warriors in among them, swords cutting down all who rose up in alarm. Scurilio alone kept his head enough to bundle Magnus onto the back of a horse and slap its rump with the flat of his blade. The last thing this old Roman dignitary saw was the flames reaching higher up enveloping the silhouettes of figures falling in agony. Drusus Magnus alone rode back into Augusta Vindelicorum with the soot from those fires still on his face.

I was three days’ north beyond the limes and to the east of the Alemanni lands when word reached me from the stylus of Posthumus Dardanus. I could not but help reading his words in disbelief. Was this young Roman Prefect unnecessarily alarmed? Angry that I was being deflected from work that needed to be done among the tribes I assembled my men and rode as fast as I could west and south towards the Danube and the small crossing at Castra Herculensis. Anger made me ride too fast and too far. They were upon us before we knew what was happening. It was a fierce and short clash which saw us slay all our attackers but which also saw all my men taken down save for myself and old Brennus the Gaul. We alone survived despite our wounds and now I knew that forces were rising here in the Barbaricum stronger than anything we had ever seen before.

On the day that we sighted the castra and the smoke rising from its shattered palisade, old Brennus collapsed in his saddle without a sound. I had time only to pour a small libation in the old way before spurring my horse forward to cross at the low ford by the castra. They were no survivors. The small detachment, no more than an ordo of limitanei, were all butchered, some still in their sleeping cots. The tribune in command was nailed up against the south gate, his corpse riddled with arrows.

I know now that they are tracking me in the shadows as I ride along the limes of the Danube towards Augusta Vindelicorum. It is three days’ away but it might as well be Rome itself for all the good it does me. The devastation is all around me and without let. The vengeance of the Alemanni for what we did to their villages has come to visit us, Magister. I fear for Raetia Secunda. I fear for Posthumus Dardanus and the legionaries who remain. I fear for all the simple people who live here in this little province so far from the great cities of our empire. I fear also that you will return too late and see only what I have seen since crossing the Danube.

It is night now and my campfire burns low. I know they will rush me in the night like dogs and I will wait for them to come my spatha naked across my lap. Do not mourn for me, Allobich. This is how it was always meant to be. I will stand and throw aside my old military cloak and show them what a Roman is. How a Roman dies. Before that however I will end this epistle and place it into the saddlebags of my horse. I will whisper a few words into her ears and then send her on into the night with a shout of triumph. Perhaps she will survive the night and reach the town and who knows you may yet read these words. The last words of Felix, Tribune of men I know without needing read are all dead across the Barbaricum. This night is cold but peaceful. The stars glitter so. I am in awe of their beauty . . .

[Jingles]

Another titanic update! Makes me feel so lazy

[Juvenal]

Can this really be the end?

This is a travesty of justice, I demand that a new expedition be sent at once to the Venetoria Monastery - this cannot be everything that was recorded. There are so many more things we need to know.

The name of Allobichus needs to be cleared, It seems completely obvious to me, given the evidence of Manuscript E, that Allobichus would not have thrown away his army on a whim, and yet now history records him as the man who lost Raetia!

SBH, I implore you to use you contacts to help save the reputation of a great man!

[MarcusTullius]

Brilliant writing!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Ah, Juvenal, as for the Venetoria Monastry, who knows? The dig is ongoing and new material is always being found. I do feel however that if Holbein and Escher felt confidant enough to publish the 'Manuscript E' as discovered then no new material awaits discovery. Perhaps it is better this way and the end of Allobich remains alone and in our minds as a personal thing? Just a thought . . .

Thanks for the comments, MarcusTullius! Feedback is always appreciated.