[AAR] RTW: AAR A DAY!

[Kátz]

Notes : Because it has been done quite a long time ago do not think that the author is going to update here.



Author: SeniorBatavianHorse
Original Thread: AAR A DAY! (Well, for a week, anyway . . .)

AAR A DAY!

Evagrius and the Camels

Evagrius hated the camels.

He always made it clear to those who would join him for a cup of cheap wine in the local tavernae that this wasn’t an abstract hate or a generalised thing, not at all. He hated every small detail and particular thing about camels. From their drooling rubbery lips to their cloven feet to their smell which attracted every fly imaginable under the African sun. He hated how they stared at you like a pregnant wife all expectant and needy. He hated how they sat down with their front knees first as if praying to the Christian god. He hated their watery eyes which always looked at you as if with pity while the sands blew into your face and the heat scorched your neck. No, as the wine flowed and the candles burned down low, Evagrius spared no detail about how much he hated the camels in every possible aspect.

Which was ironic given that he was the Ducenarius in command of a single troop of camel riders - the II Alae Dromedariorum, stationed out of a nameless castra built so long ago along the drifting limes of the desert that it existed only on the scrolls of the Comes Tingintanae as the Quintus or ‘Fourth’ . . .

And why was it, his inebriated listeners would always ask, that he, Evagrius, once a Tribune in a legio stationed in the far-off Gauls, was now relegated in rank and forced to look after camels for the honour of the Emperor Constantius, may all the Saints protect him from harm? That was the question indeed, Evagrius would always respond, before muttering low into his cup about an indiscreet affair with the wife of a Comes and the scandal of her subsequent pregnancy. So now instead of earning glory under the eyes of this new Caesar Julianus in the Gauls, against the fur-lined barbarians from beyond the Rhine, he was banished to a forgotten fort deep in the desert and commanding men on camels . . .

Thus it was that in the low fierce heat of a late Summer, with news filtering back from the Gauls of this new cousin of Constantius winning the hearts of the troops, Evagrius was ordered out on a deep patrol of the sifting deserts with his camel-riders. Traders and local merchants had reported that the desert nomads to the south were raiding across the limes and carrying off women and children from the small villages as slaves. With a months’ rations under their saddles, the II Alae Dromedariorum left the ghostly outlines of the ‘Fourth’ and vanished deep into the deserts . . .





If it was one thing Evagrius hated almost as much as camels, it was the desert. The endless, endless, sands which blew into every cranny of his body like a living organism. There was sand in his water, his wine, his bread, even his olives. Sand caked his lips. It lined his cloak as he slept at night inside his little papilio tent. He once swore that he even excreted hard lumps of sand every morning into the small hole he dug away from the eyes of his men. Sand and camels. Two hard hates which pushed in on Evagrius like a curse.



Of course, he drove the men like a tyrant and did not spare his crop across their backs. There was not a man among the cavalry troop who liked their commander. Without exception, these men were all small and wiry; natives of the tough land here on the fringes of the desert, with rough, sun-burnt, faces and narrow, dark, eyes. All of Moorish blood and in his eyes only a shade away from being barbarians. No, he drove them hard and they in their turn felt no love for him - this strange Gallic Roman with his hatred for camels, the very life-force of the desert.



They patrolled for almost a month deep over the limes on the elusive tracks a native raiding party. Tracks which indicated a large band of men on foot who always seemed to be able to evade their scouts. It was a cat-and-mouse hunt with the sand sliding always over the barbarians’ tracks and confounding their eyes. The sun hung in the cobalt sky like a bronze shield and a high wind raked their bodies without mercy but always they rode on under orders. In the long files typical for a desert patrol, the camel-riders snaked over the dunes day after day under the burning sun . . .

Towards the Ides of September, with supplies running low, Evagrius at last ran the band of barbarians down. They had been running all through the night as well as the day and evading his scouts by back-tracking and using the remote oases few in his troop knew - but finally the stamina of these barbarians had worn away. Now, with the sun blazing in all its desert majesty, he and his men had run them down to a small cluster of date palms all lost in the seemingly endless sands. He knew the nomads were finished even if they did not. His troopers, all mounted on those detestable camels, would soon overpower them even though they outnumbered him by a third. These barbarians were only really adapted to light raiding and skirmishing. A trained Roman force would soon see them all stretched out across the sands but there was no reason not to have some amusement first.





Approaching the illusory shelter of the palm trees, Evagrius ordered the Ala to spread out in a long line in open order. He barked out his orders in the curt Latin all in the army knew by heart and sat back against the hump of his own camel to watch with a wolfish smile on his face. This may not be the rolling fields and scattered woods of the Gauls with the ordered ranks of legionaries filing past him but it was fighting nonetheless. As the shouts of the Centenarius and the Biarchus rippled down the ranks, overpowering the low barks and spits of the camels, Evagrius could see that the nomads were clumping up around the trees, trying to find effective cover from his imminent attack. It was all so futile, he thought and his grin widened.





A single, curt, command launched the first wave of his javelins and he saw with pleasure a dozen tattooed and bronzed bodies fall into the sand. They carried shields but only ones made of light wicker which would not impede a well cast Roman javelin. The second wave thinned out their ranks even more and now Evagrius could see their chieftain, a man clad in armour even if it was light scale, urge his men to hold, to wait until the Romans charged into the trees, but it was no use. In small clumps at first, they edged out towards his men, dodging the javelins and attempting to return with throws of their own. Soon more trailed out of the trees and now the bulk of the barbarian warband was advancing towards them, bolstered by the mass of their comrades. How tiresomely predictable, Evagrius thought. Did these desert nomads never learn?







With his camel-riders edging their snorting beasts backwards while still releasing wave after wave of javelins, Evagrius watched as the nomads crept slowly after them. Now they were all clear of the date palms and out in the open. A glance to the olive-eyed Centenarius and then the men of the II Alae Dromedariorum reached down to pull out their long cavalry blades - the spatha - and goad their mounts into a sudden charge. Before the nomads could react, they were in among them and hacking away at the exposed bodies with abandon. Chaos settled over the struggle as the sand billowed up under the splayed toes of the camels. It was a fierce battle for the barbarians knew that the Romans would give them no mercy and let them leave these few trees alive and so they sought to bring as many of the camel-riders down with them as they could. The men of the II Ala were inured to this kind of desert fighting though and used the bulk of their animals’ weight to push and press down upon the nomads - giving them no opportunity to present a cohesive shield-wall. It was just a Evagrius swallowed a lungful of sand and wished fervently for a goatskin of wine to wash it away, that they broke and ran for the shelter of the palms. The remaining javelins impaled the bulk of the routers and then Evagrius sent his entire troop after them to cut them all down.









The chieftain with a few of his personal guard survived that slaughter and ran out of the rear of the palm trees across the lonely desert. No mercy was shown as expected and soon his body lay stretched out face down in a puddle of its own blood.





Evagrius strode atop a low dune and removed the heavy helmet from his head. Sweat streamed down his face and his body ached as if he had run a marathon. He smiled at that and sought to release his knotted muscles one by one. The Biarchus ran up and offered him a bladder of water which he gratefully received. Below him, the men were tending to their wounded and collecting all the bodies of the fallen in preparation for a bonfire. The desert would soon take care of the remains. He saw with some surprise that around thirty of his men were slain, about a quarter of the troops’ strength. The fighting must have been fiercer than he realised and he looked anew upon the men, his men, and noted their professionalism and dedication to training. Some were pegging out the camels in a double line. Others were collecting booty and arms to be distributed out among the ranks. One man - Annutius, he thought - was dressing the wounds and giving out little pots of salve. All his men seemed content despite their casualities. It dawned upon Evagrius then that despite the camels these men were Roman soldiers living in a tough land without complaint and following the standards wherever they led. Did he have such honour in his bones, he wondered, as he slaked his thirst from the bladder? Perhaps it was time to rethink his position here among the African Romans in this forsaken land of sand and sun, he wondered? It was then that a dust trail could be seen hanging low over the horizon to the north. He spotted it before the men below did and so he barked out a command to the Centenarius to send a light detachment of ‘tent’ men to investigate.

That night under a cool moon all frosted with stars, the dust cloud resolved into a troop of Roman cavalry clad in mail and riding beneath a stern draco head. Fresh orders were shoved into his surprised hand signed by a newly appointed Comes Tingintanae from the Gauls. He was to report back to the regional headquarters and receive the rank again of Tribune and the re-instatement of his Senatorial privileges and his old name of Aulus Mummius. His exile was at an end and a glittering career in the army of Rome now beckoned. For a moment, with the men of the II Ala Dromedariorum on one side, all dusty and wounded from battle, and the elite riders of a Roman cavalry vexillation, clad in mail and mounted upon tall Hunnish horses on the other, Evagrius actually found himself debating about whether or not to accept his promotion - then he laughed out loud at his own foolishness and ordered the Ducenarius of the newly-arrived cavalry to lend him a remount - a white bay with eager eyes from the stud farms in Hispania - and then turned to settle once and for all his relationship with camels.





So it is that if you see Evagrius now in the tavernae among the towns of the coast drinking into his cups, his fine spatha on one side and his fine crested helmet on another, he will still invite you over and wax lyrical about camels, how they smell, how they are wilful and disobedient, how they are no fit mount for a Roman officer. Yes, Evagrius hates camels but in one aspect at least he has changed his mind. In one aspect Evagrius will tell you that actually after a light roasting over a spit with wine poured liberally over the meat, camel - especially his camel that he was forced to sit upon for weeks at a time - tastes very fine indeed . . .

Barbatio and the Indiscreet Letter

To His Adored Assyria, Incomparable and Divine,


I feel it incumbent upon me to assuage your fears, my love. Be assured that all is well here in the barbaricum north of the Danube limes and that your worries are naught but the normal humours of your sex. This fresh cousin of our most sacred emperor Constantius is like a newly-birthed foal, all sprightly and eager to gallop before he can trot. He launches us all on errant marches against the Alemanni and the Frankish tribes here beyond the Danube and we follow upon his heels as fast as we dare. We are, however, wiser than he and always at the service of the Augustus before that of his Caesar. Take heed then, Assyria, that although we march under this Julian’s standards we all know with whom the supreme authority lies. Rest then in your restlessness and look only for good news from me.

Remember the affair of Gallus and know that what was done once may be done again; and who was raised once as a result may be raised even further also. If I were to mention a place by the emperor’s side as his co-ruler then you will divine my intent should Julian fall foul of his cousin’s jealousy. I will write no more but that in my dreams we stand in a fall of rose petals and all clad in the purple.

Yes, you were right, the march north over the Danube from Augusta Vindelicorum was a hideous affair. All mud and thick trees which the men did not take well too. These soldiers are fickle and untried. Fat whelps from the soft lands in the Italies. We floundered through this wilderness like drunkards and leaked men by the hour. Daily, I swear, epistles from the Caesar arrived demanding our progress and in each epistle lay detailed instructions for our dispositions and nightly entrenchments. This man is more a bookish historian than a general. I can imagine him dictating his letters with Tacitus or Arrian by his side! What foolishness of his to imagine that he can resurrect that old Rome of the Antonines or the Octavians. It is enough to mollify him with martial words however for we progressed unhindered deep into the barbaricum and so did not need recourse to his antiquated notions of nightly fortifications and endless sentries.





I cannot express our deep shock enough to you, my dearest Assyria, when the Alemanni advanced against us out of the woods and hidden tracks of their deep forests. We had been attempting to rendezvous with the legions under the Comes, Dulcitius, a tiresome fellow, eager to follow the standards of this new Caesar, when they appeared someway off, all shouting and waving their weapons in the usual barbaric fashion. It was with foresight that I was able to move my columns away from the woods and broken passes into an area of open ground and prepare for their assaults. I must say, Assyria, this northen land with its unkempt tribes and rough ways is so very different from the silky words and manners we have been used to at Antioch in the Oriens. There was something invigorating, it must be said, seeing the legionaries form up under the dull metal sheen of the sky and amid the trampled snow all newly fallen in the night. I watched my breath hang about me like a pearl diadem and thought on it as an omen - but I will write no more of that, my sweetness.



That fool Dulcitius would be late in arriving and I wondered if perhaps this Julian had suborned him so that we would all perish here in this distant land but it was of no import. The men of the III Julian Alpine legion formed up well enough despite their greenness and I arrayed the other units about them in support. Sitting back upon the haunches of my horse, I nodded with satisfaction as the lines settled down and the shouts of the file-closers and the line officers gradually drifted away in the still snow-draped air. Before us all came the Alemanni, all dreary shouting and the dull tramp of their feet. I ordered a flask of wine to be brought up and waited. Battle is a dismal affair, Assyria, ugly and often ill-conceived despite what the writers say. Do not think of it as a single woven tapestry all interconnected threads and shading images. It is rather a shattered mosaic wherein the pieces are all dislocated and thrown about. Nothing ruins an army more than a war, it has been said, and nothing ruins a legion more than a mass of screaming barbarians.







They certainly came at us with gusto, I will give them that. I watched in awe as they threw themselves upon our serried ranks like rabid hounds on a hare. It was magnificent. I remember even now as I write this a week later in my tent in a camp all fortified according to our ‘Greek’s’ orders how they foamed at the mouth and hacked away at us. These Germans are ferocious animals in the form of men. A single sword blow from one of them can cleave a soldier down to his waist. I almost felt sorry for them as they surged up to us and crashed against our lines like a giant wave. Can you imagine, my Assyria? I, feeling pity. How absurd! It was utterly useless, of course. Our men held their ranks and kept their shields locked together as they had been trained to all the while our rear ranks showered them with arrows and light spears. Here and there, the firm shout of a Ducenarius or a Centenarius could be heard, ordering the lines to rotate or close up or advance slowly forward. It was marvellous to watch even as we broke that wave and reduced it into a crimson shambles. Shouts of ‘hold the line’, ‘look to your standards’, and ‘remember your oath’ rose up like a litany in the Christian church. We advanced over a carpet of the dead wrapped up in the slush of a bloody snow.







And then it was over as suddenly as these things are. To a man, they broke and fled from us in a streaming mass, throwing away their spears and shields. Truly, you would have laughed to see them run so, like children from a neighbour’s angry dog. Enthused with the scent of victory, I ordered all the men to advance and run them down without mercy and so all along the lines our Roman troops moved up and hacked them down from behind. What sport it was! What fine sport indeed! All among us we laughed and broke rude jokes as we slew them without mercy, without honour. After all, one does not treat animals with respect anymore than one would eulogise a pet for being true to its nature. These barbarians know nothing of Roman honour or courage and why should they? They live in the woods after all, animals by nature.





We only ceased the slaughter once our arms were too wearied from it all.

It pleased me to look out on a battlefield triumphant with Roman arms and in honour to our Augustus Constantius and my smile was cruel and unyielding in its victory.





Can you imagine the insult dealt to me then when the men in their rude enthusiasm proclaimed Julian the victor? Of how they shouted out his name like a call to grasp the purple? These men of the III Julian Alpine legion, no doubt seeing in his name an echo of their own regiment, called out to his spirit in the old pagan ways and offered up the heads of the slain as a valedictory to his future. What impudence. That an upstart snatched out of the Greek academies should inspire such devotion in men who had not even seen him let alone fought under his standards? You can imagine what a foul mood it put me in.

So, Assyria, worry not about me here in the barbaricum. This Julian will fall to his own hubris and I alone will be the one to catch him in that fall as I did his brother Gallus. And what was done to one brother may be done to another, should the divine Augustus so will it. Our star rises, my sweetness, into a sky swathed in purple and gold . . .

Your ever devoted,

Barbatio, Magister Militum

Equitius and the Mosaic of History

(Reprint, with some omissions, of an article first printed in ‘History Now’, Volume 8, No. 3, entitled ‘Footprints in the Sands of Time’, by Escher and Holbein)


The remnants of an empire in its collapse are often fragmentary and obscure which only tantalises historians and leads inevitably to frustrations and myth-making writ large. We re-construct such ends more to reflect our own prejudices and needs than we do really to understand our past. Often, the questions we ask about the past say more about who we are than those long gone into shadow and doom. This is nowhere more evident than in the collapse of the Roman empire in the West, especially given that said Roman empire survived in the East for much longer - some would say too long, indeed. Such a contradiction of an empire which both did and did not collapse can only prove divisive to say the least.

However, as historians frustrated by dwindling written records and inconclusive archaeological evidence, it is always as if a ray of pure light is shed when rarely several sources cohere into a distinct narrative - especially if such a narrative brings into this ray of light not the imperial personages of the lofty writers but a lesser being in all humility and with all our faults. So it is with Equitius, a man not fated to grace to annals of Ammianus or Zosimus. A man who must stand awkwardly in such exalted works and so evades them like a mist upon water.

It is moments like this where history comes alive outside the writings of Imperial annals that allows us if only for a precious moment to step down to the street-corner of the everyday man. As if in the great mosaics of Ravenna or Constantinople in a little corner a rude face peeks out and tips us a salutary wink.



We first became aware of this Equitius in the tablets being excavated at the small Roman fort of Mamentia, deep in the province of Lugdunenis Tertia, in the diocese of the Gauls. These surviving fragments while nowhere near in volume to the materials being unearthed at Vindolanda in Britain do give a precious insight into life in a late Roman fort and as such are invaluable. It was from these fragments that Equitius was first brought to our attention with the retrieval of a short military dispatch from Nevitta, one of the commanders in Julian’s entourage in Gaul. It requests the immediate dispatch of Equitius, ‘in silentio’, or stealthily, north to the town of Samarobriva in the province of Belgica Secunda. The garrison commander, a certain Scudillo, is ordered to furnish him with all assistance necessary.



And that was it. Our Equitius existed only as a patronymic in a curt papyric note. Nothing more. It was enough however to allow Escher and myself, now somewhat exhausted from the publishing labour of ‘Manuscript E’, to delve a little deeper. We knew that Samarobriva from archaeological records was severely sacked sometime in the middle 350s and that Nevitta was operating as one of Julian’s high ranking Comes in the chaos of Gaul. The phrase ‘in silentio’ in the late Roman period is usually associated with army intelligence and very much indicates that this Equitius is an exploratores or army scout detached from his battalion. So we know his career, the period within a few years within which he served, and a specific mission he was tasked to perform. It was a little glimpse into an often darkened corner of the Roman world and that itself was enough for us both.

It was only a few weeks later however when it struck me that several years ago while rummaging in the little towns and churches of that part of France I had come across a small museum which had preserved fragments of Latin graffiti on several pottery shards from the surrounding area. I remembered that in one dusty corner of the museum in a badly lit glass case rested a large amphora almost intact upon which had been inscribed the sentiment ‘Love flies on wings as Equitius moves across the land’. I was so struck by this remembrance that both Escher and myself booked tickets the next day and trained across the channel to visit again this museum. To say that we were excited would be an understatement indeed.

I had remembered it exactly. There it stood and upon its faded surface rested the small uneven Latin letters - a sentiment as moving as it was lonely, speaking perhaps of a lost love or an abandoned woman left alone. Was this the same man, we wondered? The dating of the amphora was inconclusive but certainly late Roman. Equitius is however not that uncommon a name and so we remained cautious. It was then that the local curator, a marvellously wizened old woman named Maria appeared and saw us admiring the large vase. Smiling in silence, she proceeded to unlock the glass cabinet and turn the amphora around. There, to our astonishment, stood revealed more graffiti in a different hand. It read ‘And like the swallows every Spring, I will return never silent to you’. I could not believe my eyes and Escher also seemed struck by it. This was more than a coincidence of a similar name. Here was not only a coded reference to his work as an exploratores but also his own hand-writing itself pledging his love to the writer of the first phrase.

Marie smiled at us as we leaned in to almost touch this finger-print from the past. She told us, in broken English, how she always imagined the two of them together writing on the vase as a love-troth, their hands perhaps brushing against each others as they passed the stylus back and forth. She beckoned us then over to another area in the little museum and pointed to a preserved interior wall fragment. There on its faded white paint rested more writing, so faint as to be almost invisible. Escher exclaimed then in a loud voice that it was the same hand-writing as the first we had seen and as I look harder I could see that he was correct. Again, Maria unlocked the glass and we peered in to find written in a shaky hand the words ‘Winter stays all year round now. Not for me, the turning of the year ever more’.

That phrase chilled me to the bone more than reading an obituary has ever done. Equitius had not come back to the woman who owned his heart and she had been left alone to pine away after all. Escher commented then that sometimes brevity can say more to a soul than the all the words poured out aloud. I must say that I cannot disagree with him.

We asked this Marie where the wall fragment came from and she directed us to a large hand-painted map of the region showing the Roman roads and places of known interest. A large villa-complex occupied the northern quarter and she gestured to its remains. A little booklet which she offered up described it as a flourishing late Gallo-Roman latifundia associated with the gens of the Appollinarii -who would eventually produce such learned writers as Sidonius Appollinaris and transient emperors such as Avitus over a hundred years from the time of Equitius and the nameless woman whose writings now tantalised us.



The villa stood over eighty miles from the fort of Mamentia - too far for Equitius to have met this woman as a casual acquaintance while serving under Scudillo at the fort. He must have met her long before his posting there, perhaps in his childhood or while on service with another battalion in the field army, being billeted on the villa owners. Such speculation on our part continued as we took our leave of the old museum guardian and retired to our rooms for the night. It would not be an exaggeration to say that the glow from our MacBooks through the night as we researched online regarding the villa gave us both a deathly pallor.

Dawn brought fresh light and then I saw Escher lean back from his MacBook and yelp with joy. There it was on the screen - the reports from the preliminary digs only two years ago at the villa. Mostly coins and pottery shards, some jewellery, fragments of various metal parts - and then three stone inscriptions which had formed the pedestals of different columns. The second one caught my attention immediately - ‘Julia Flavia Appollinaria dedicates this column to the memory of Bishop Austerius, of Samarobriva, ever pastoral and vigilant, who searched but did not find that which is now lost forever, in the Consulship of Julianus and Constantius.’

There we had it. Equitius was dispatched to Samarobriva to report on the Frankish movements there once the town had been sacked. He had been ordered to proceed with all haste and expediency in preparation, no doubt, for Julian’s counter-attack we know took place next Spring in the year 357. Eighty miles north of his garrison fort, Equitius stopped and exchanged words with Julia Flavia of the Appollinaris gens; words which pledged love and a vow to return. That vow remained unfulfilled. This Julia Flavia dedicated a column in her villa to Austerius, Bishop of Samarobriva, in honour of a search he conducted for whom or what remains unknown but both Escher and myself have our suspicions. It was a search which proved futile. As both the column inscription and the wall graffiti attest.





Exhausted, we both fell asleep in the morning light, our papers and notes all a mess in the rooms.

So, gentle readers, there you have it. A little ray of light, sober and poignant, outwith the histories and chronicles of those times. Imagine a stage of vast proportions in which mighty choirs sing of honour and war, heroism and sacrifice; a stage rich in colour and movement. And in that stage there is a tiny corner unlit and neglected, marginalised and almost forgotten. In that small pocket perhaps we can glimpse Equitius and Julia hand in hand laughing by the side of an amphora, writing their secret hearts’ desires on that most ubiquitous of all Roman objects . . . Perhaps . . .

(Someone once wrote that reading a footnote is like going downstairs to answer the front door bell on your wedding night - should I then mention that there is an Equitius attested in Julian’s Persian expedition some years later? That this man gained renown and riches under Valentinian and retired to a vast estate in the Balkans to eventually profit from the migrations of the Goths across the Danube into Roman territory? Perhaps not . . . )

Fravitta and the Lonely End


Fravitta
Tribunus
Cohortis Quartae Gallorum
Vindolanda
Vallum Hadrianem
Diocesum Brittaniarum

I remember reading that Latin inscription the first time I passed the southern gate of the fort at Vindolanda on the Wall. The black of the ink was bold and raw against the papyrus which had been nailed up on the thick wood of the gate. There it lay for all to see - my name against the honourable rank and command of the army of Rome. A Gothic name and a Roman title - ‘Fravitta’, Tribune of the Fourth Gallic Cohort, stationed at Vindolanda. No, it was not a field army unit nor a unit raised in honour of the newer emperors and this fort was not a luxurious billet such as those that the palatine and comitatenses units are quartered in. I doubt there was a more dubious posting in all the empire or all along its ancient limes - but it was my first command and I could not imagine a more proud soldier at that moment anywhere. I was Fravitta, Tribune, and defender of the Wall.



It was also, alas, my last command. Here I have rotted now for almost thirty years. This fort has been my home and these men my brothers for longer than I had ever anticipated. Year in and year out we have held the limes against the Picts and their sporadic raids. Through endless summers and winters we have guarded the Wall and patrolled north into the barbaricum to remind these painted savages that Rome may be dormant but she is not without teeth, if you will pardon my clumsy phrase.

Thirty years and I have aged and whitened like an old Dolmen stone which mark these parts. I am stooped and find it hard to march now with the men. The medicus tells me an ague is in my joints but I always push him away in anger like a dog snapping at a kindly stranger. The once deep blue of my eyes is dull and pale now like the skies here in Britain in Winter. But I am Tribune still and no man here in this fort will dare cross my path without incurring my wrath and the lash of my officer’s crop.

This is an old unit, long since sundered from its parent legion and left also to rot here on the Wall. Although I hold the rank of Tribune, the men under me still salute the older titles and ranks and daily I receive reports from the centurions among the men. This Cohort’s honours and standards are faded with age and use but no man here will exchange them for the dragon heads of these new emperors. This Fourth Gallic Cohort remains a testament to an older time when Rome bestrode the known world like a colossus and although we linger here now like ghosts our honour shines as brightly as if it had been newly-minted.

These times now are restless and war ravages the Gauls. We hear snippets from the grain ships at Pons Aelius; of barbarians flooding across the diocese and a new son of Mars raised by our Augustus Constantius to defend those broken limes. This Julian reminds me of Diocletian ever restless and full of strength. It is said that Constantius has only raised him to allow him to fall into betrayal and so slay him. As he did Gallus, Julian’s brother, before him. It is not for me to question the will of a sacred emperor but I will say that the merchants and slaves on the grain ships speak only revered words about this Julian.

Always we man the battlements and watch the north, its murky woods and rough lands. The Areani inform us that all is safe among the hearths of the Picts; that their chieftains mutter of war but lack the will to prosecute it. These Areani are men beyond my comprehension - dark and silent, who have lived too long under the cloak of the barbarians and wear now their tattoos and sport their jewellery. The Dux at Eboracum trusts them though and puts great faith in their intelligence. Yet my men always spit behind their backs when they appear like the shades of the dead within our walls. There is a saying here on the Wall - look too long into the barbaricum and the barbaricum will look into you . . .

. . . Word has arrived that the Dux, Magnetius, himself is marching north to the Wall with the bulk of his troops. The messengers whisper of turmoil south in the lower provinces of the Britains, with the Comes Britanniarum and the Comes Litorus Saxonici all mobilising in response to Saxon incursions along the coasts to the south and east. I am amazed that our Dux is leaving Eboracum, the praesidio of his office with the Sixth Legion, to come this far north among the mists and bitter winds. Even the Areani seem startled and have all vanished into the barbaricum.



It is now that my ague flares up and pain assails my joints. I have no patience and even old friends seem to avoid me. I snap and snarl with no reason. I am an old dog worn away with age and all my fur rotting but I can still bite. Advance riders from the Dux advise us that he will be at the Wall by the end of the Ides of October and that he would deem it wise if we were to gather intelligence from the Areani for his officers and notaries. These dark men however have gone like shadows at midday. My fort at Vindolanda remains devoid of their uncertain presence. I am advised that the Dux will think ill of an old Tribune who had not the foresight to arrange such intelligence as was deemed necessary and that if the Areani themselves would not provide it then I myself must.

So it is that I assemble the Cohort in all its entirety this lone October morning. We will march into the barbaricum in the old way as the legions and cohorts used to do in the time of Augustus and Trajan. We will remember what it is to march with full kit into the land of the Picts, singing the old songs and listening to the tramp of our boots as we pass out the north gate in the Wall, our vexillum flags high above our helmeted heads. We will obey this silly command for that is what Roman soldiers do and we will get this information our Dux asks for - for we are the Fourth Gallic Cohort, long since lost from its Legion, left to rot at this fort on the Wall which defends an island once thought itself lost from Europe. I am Tribune and no superior will ever say that I shirked from my duty.

One hundred and sixty four men I muster on this morning below the vexillum standards. All that was left of the Cohort which once numbered, many generations ago, some six hundred of a legion’s finest men. I see old helmets brought out and re-tinned. Crests fixed. The battle honours and medals pinned to chests. I see next to me the signifier wearing the lion’s pelt as if it is newly slain and cured - and affect not to notice how worn and patched it is. I see all this even as I bark out my command to march out and away from our home, from Vindolanda at the Wall, and hide - no doubt badly - how much I ache in my joints.

We march north into the barbaricum, an old Cohort, a weary dog who has seen better days - but a dog nonetheless. I curse the Areani and their absence. I curse the whim of a lazy Dux. I curse the bitter wind which assails us as we clear the north gate.

Only once do I look back to the Wall. The gate is closing behind us, the few remaining sentries looking stern and still like statues in honour of our departure, the odd curl of smoke from the blacksmiths trailing into the cold sky.

I look back once and still see that little papyrus nailed to the south gate and my name attached to this unit for the first time -

Fravitta
Tribunus
Cohortis Quartae Gallorum
Vindolanda
Vallum Hadrianem
Diocesum Brittaniarum

I know we will never see those gates ever again . . .

Flavianus and the Felicitous Dawn

The Annals of Belgica

Book XXII

. . . And so the merchants and the senators resident in the province of Belgica Prima sought refuge with the Dux Moguntiacensis and his various officers and soldiers within the walls of Augusta Treverorum. The Dux, Macrinus, sought to bring order to the walls and the streets of this venerated Gallic city, capitol of the ancient tribes of the Treveri, and to reassure the throngs of people who flocked beneath the walls in refuge. The Praetorian Prefect of the Gauls, also resident within the city, Florentius, adrift from his companions and notaries worked tirelessly to bring in the grain harvests, store up supplies and generally assist the will of the Caesar, Julian, now to the north and west with his legions in pursuit of the Franks who had breached the lower Rhine and were even now spreading fire and pillage across Belgica Secunda. Day and night, crowds of all sorts could be seen in misery all mingled and thrown together without order or respite. Despite the presence of the legions and vexillations, riots soon broke out and chaos threatened. Macrinus ordered his soldiers to arrest all trouble-makers and show no mercy.





Daily, epistles arrived from our Caesar in the field requesting men and supplies and both the Dux and the Praetorian Prefect struggled to fulfil his demands. Augusta Treverorum itself was not immune however and soon word spread that Chnodomarius, the rex of the Alemanni, would arrive from across the Rhine with a mighty host of Germanic barbarians, now fortified with deserters and renegades. This was fearful news indeed. While Belgica trembled before the onslaught of the Franks, the provinces of the Upper Rhine had fallen to the Alemanni hordes under this Chnodomarius and his lesser chieftains. Our Roman armies were scattered and in disarray, with the limes broken like a dog who has had its back snapped in two. Florentius urged us all to place out trust in the Dux and his legions stationed now inside the city and we waited all in prayer as the barbarians advanced towards us.



When the host finally arrived to our great astonishment it did not invest our walls with siege-works or breasted shields but remained encamped some few leagues north of our fields. Only from the highest towers and the main gates could we see their many camp-fires smudging the horizon. This threw Florentius into a panic and he was heard to wonder on this Chnodomarius and his intent. The Dux bade him remain resolved and not fret. Daily we wondered on what the Alemanni would do next and daily we remained ignorant like penitent monks before the stern gaze of the Bishop.

At the Ides of the month, word arrived from this Alemanni rex that should our gates remain open and our soldiers swear not to assault or hinder his warriors, no harm should fall upon this ancient city of the Treveri. It was not his intent to sack and plunder as the Franks do but rather seek an equitable alliance or foederus with the mighty Romans. Had not the Goths been such allies of Rome in times past? Had not the Franks before their perfidy too been settled along the Rhine limes within the Empire? Let his people rest here among the Treveri and watch the Rhine like faithful brothers in arms. There was land aplenty for all and what benefited his people benefited Rome also.

The senators and generals of the consilium were split by these insidious proposals. Macrinus swore that Chnodomarius had not intention of allying himself with the Roman state and that this was a ruse or stratagem to disunite them all. Florentius however argued that the proposal of the German chieftain made sense. The Roman armies were scattered like seeds on a foul wind. The emperor remained far away in the east and his cousin, Julian, laboured against the Franks with spies and dubious generals in his midst. Who knows what might befall this little sapling of a Greek philosopher with his scrawny beard? Why would not a German army be of use to him? Perhaps this Chnodomarius might be the cord to bind the ancient fasces together again?

In the days which followed the proposal of the Alemanni rex, it could be seen that barbarian cavalry approached the walls ever closer as if testing the strength of the Romans. Crowds flocked out to sell them supplies but Macrinus ordered the gates shut and barred and then put armoured men on the walls to show our resolve. Dispatch riders were sent to the Caesar to inform him of our plight and request aid and it was known that the Praetorian Prefect demanded that this Chnodomarius’ terms be included also. As the days passed and gradually the Alemanni settled about us, we wondered on what God in his wisdom had in store for us all here in this city.

Our scouts reported that Saxon envoys and ambassadors were to be seen near the main encampment of the Alemanni host and that much bread was being broken between them. This worried the Dux who saw in these sharings an alliance between the sea-wolves and the barbarians from beyond the Rhine. Together, these peoples might venture far and in strength. In desperation, he summoned all the remaining troops along the limes in an effort to prevent such a thing from coming to pass. News of this however incensed the Praetorian Prefect of the Gauls and he insisted that such troops that did respond to his orders remain outside the city and in their own billets for fear of provoking the Alemanni. To preserve the peace within the city and maintain a semblance of order, Macrinus agreed and ordered his subordinate, Dulcitius, military prefect of the Second Flavian, to assemble north and east of the city, in effect blocking any retreat of the Alemanni back to the Rhine river. There, some miles north of the fort named Bodobrica, this prefect brought not just the Second Flavian to his standards but also the Defenders and some straggling units of the ‘Heavies’. There Dulcitius remained within the fringes of the forests so as to keep his men safe and obscured.







As the month turned and word arrived that the siege of Hatomagus had been broken by Julian and his army and that even now our victorious Caesar was moving to invest Samarobriva to oust the Franks there, the Alemanni again approached our walls and invited us to become their brothers by treaty. To my surprise, the Dux greeted them with cordiality and listened to their entreaties at length. Florentius, present, by common consent, seemed fazed by Macrinus’ patience, and the Senators with him whispered uneasily into their Gallic cloaks. This Chnodomarius was an imposing figure in his furs and gold-chased armour and he spoke with an easy Latin and even some Greek to our replies. Macrinus bade this rex wait a week until he could consult with the Caesar and if the latter was agreeable then a foederus would be formally agreed and the Alemanni would be given Roman land in exchange for warriors and aid whenever Rome demanded. Florentius was speechless at this and could merely nod his agreement. The Alemanni rex was delighted and bade us all sit to drink and break bread with him and his chieftains.

It was only a day later as we prepared the daily dispatches for the Caesar that upon the writing desk lay a curt note from Julian to Macrinus biding him keep this Alemanni rex peaceful until the felicitous dawn arrive.

I knew then that there would be no foederus with the Alemanni and that the felicitous dawn was not a reference to Sol for I have served in the military offices in the past and know how to read the poetical fancies which send men to their deaths - or should we forget that Julian himself lost a brother to such intrigue? A dawn would be arriving soon and it would be bloody indeed. Wars are fought and men die and only some of them on the field of battle . . .





It's a great mod, PowerWizard, and one that let's you control the WHOLE of the Roman Empire! Oh, the rush!

Silvanus and the Silver Fort

To His Most Blessed Majesty, Julianus, Caesar and Protector of the Gauls, by Mandate of His Most Sacred Benefactor, Constantius, Augustus, Imperator, Dominator . . .

I will make this brief, Julian, and forego the hyperbole despite the remonstrations of these infernal notaries. I will not again mention my gratitude to you for honouring me with the title of Praeses and placing me in charge of this newly conquered land and the town, barbarian though it is, of Argentoratum, here beyond the limes of the Rhine. Your confidence in me will not be misplaced. But, by all the gods, could you have picked for me a worst sort of place! If I had any inkling of the Hell of the Galileans then surely this wretched place would qualify as its ante-chamber. Stop, I can hear you laughing as you read these words written so informally despite the nervous notaries clustering about my shoulders like carrion birds. This is no laughing matter.





Let me explain: I do not mind that your legionaries ravaged the town once it had fallen and that you allowed them to glut their swords on all the Alemanni still alive within its smoking ruins. That is but the practice of war and will appease the Gods if nothing else. I do not mind also that of the smoking ruins scarcely anything remained to qualify as a building in the Roman sense of the word. Again mere detail of war. Nor, finally, do I mind that within a month you and your legions departed westwards back into the provinces of the Gauls with the bulk of your troops. That is no more than the exigencies of war too. All this is to be expected.

What I do mind is the wretched squalor I am left to live in! I govern a town beyond the limes and sit down to eat and still the smell of burnt wood hangs in the air. Where are the engineers and the masons to rebuild this town, I ask? Where are the merchants from Augusta Vindelicorum eager to put up their stalls in the forum - not that we have anything remotely like such a fine Roman building, mind you? Where are the slaves and colonii to work these fields as the Summer months progress like a bridal train through the temples? I am reduced to eating pork. Pork! Men smile at me through broken teeth and unwashed beards as they serve it, too. It is most distressing.





I know. I know. Endure, you will say, between your laughter. You campaign as Alexander did all boundless energy and youthful vigour, a hero from the ancient annals, but I am old and white-haired; a dog one pets by the fire-side not takes out hunting to run eager by the hooves of your horse. Of course, I am honoured by your trust in me - there is no denying that - but couldn’t you put me in charge of some small fat province down along the coast of the Mare Nostrum? Arelate, for example? I hear their wines are exquisite.



No, I am being glib. Forgive me. This battered town is recovering under my auspicious eyes, it must be said, despite my irascible nature. Here we sit beyond the Rhine in the devastated lands of the Alemanni, barely two thousand in population, all freed-slaves and those too destitute to return to Roman soil. We celebrate the triumph of Roman arms in regaining this lost piece of the Imperium from the barbarians and wonder on your fortunate star, old friend. Morale is high despite the nearness of the Alemanni and some small coin fills the treasury thanks to your attention to detail. Even now, as I pen this little note, which, of course, I fully expect to receive no reply to - again, the mules and wagons depart from here to supply iron-ore to Augusta Vindelicorum and Augusta Treverorum along the limes. We reap little in return and it must be said suffer from a poor harvest - the scars of the siege remain too evident upon the land.







I am grateful for the small unit placed here under the Tribune Oriscus, a few hundred light-armed men who watch our wooden walls with strict vigilance. Yet I find myself envying the reports from Valentinianus to the north with the bulk of the Comitatus harassing the Alemanni hearth. His fine legions and cavalry would certainly lend this ‘Silver Fort’ some much-needed security! Ah, I am feeling morose, Julian. Ignore these words - I feel homesick for the villa and the theatre. Here the wind bites so and that smell of burning never lessens! May this small letter find you well in the Gauls and bathing in new glory amid the shattered standards of the Franks! Rest assured that all is well here beyond the Rhine in this little town which may one day prove to be a flower of Roman civilisation here in the barbaricum!

Your old friend Silvanus, once a tutor and orator of Hellene philosophy.

Tiberius and the Unauthorised Landing

Report to the Commander of the Saxon Litoral,
From the Praefectus, Tiberius,
Commanding, First Cohort, Dalmatian Horse, Stablesian Horse, units of the Second Augusta,
Operating within the province of Flavia Caesariensis,
Under your Most Special authority,


We had been billeted under the hospitalitas laws at Venta Icenorum as per your will. This land is low and full of shallow beaches, marshes and ragged woods. There is much cultivated land around the town but inland all is rough and intangible. The Iceni here are loyal, though, and that is something in these uncertain times.

As instructed, I deployed the cavalry and infantry on regular patrols along the litoral paths in small detachments. A series of watch-towers were erected by sailors and marines in order that should the barbarians land we would be quickly be informed and able to muster the troops accordingly. Contact was maintained with elements of the fleet out of Branodunum and Garionnonum, and the Praefectus of the Branodunum classis in particular, Maxentius, deserves comment for his fastidious command. The civil authorities have been helpful and eager to support our troops despite our presence in the town as they know that should the barbarians arrive we will march out to destroy them.

Word arrived via light elements of the classis that a Saxon marauding fleet had been sighted out to sea and that it was sailing west towards the litoral here in Flavia Caesariensis. I concentrated the troops here at Venta and fortified the outlying villas and settlements in preparation. Maxentius informed me that his light scouting liburnae, all painted blue and with blue sails, were able to shadow these Saxons even until their landfall not thirty miles from the town.



Plans were laid and orders issued, and on the night of the day before the Kalends of Julius, we marched quietly out of the town in battle-order. We took up positions two miles south and east of the town and waited. Dawn arrived and with it tongues of flame and columns of smoke from the Saxon keels. Our classis had slid in under cover of darkness and sent in fire-ships to wreak havoc among their beached galleys. Maxentius launched a high fire-bolt to signal success and so we advanced to engage the Saxons forces now stranded on the shore.

I drew up the II Augusta in two lines and placed the cavalry vexillations in equal strength on either wings with orders to harass the enemy’s flanks and force them to bunch together. This I hoped would allow our battle-hardened legionaries to fall upon the Saxons with maximum effect. By midday, with the distant walls of the town glinting under a fierce sun and the Roman liburnae hanging out at sea ready to move in closer to assist with ballistae fire should we require it, we moved to engage the Saxons and teach them the justice of Roman law.







These barbarians were fuelled with anger at the loss of their keels and were eager avenge that insult. They arrayed their lines in a long mass with the hardened warriors to the front and the lesser levies behind among their missile troops. I could see as we advanced in good order across the flat sandy reaches of the shore that I would need to be wary of sending my cavalry into those masses of spearmen. Accordingly, I sent both vexillations on long flanking moves to draw out the Saxons and disrupt their lines but with orders to the two tribunes not to engage in melee, merely to harass. Using the ‘forfex’ as a classical manoeuvre, this caused the barbarians to mill about thanks to their own lack of cavalry and as a result their lines became disordered and sown with confusion. Slowly I advanced the main infantry lines to put more pressure upon the barbarians, ordering the men to shout out the ‘barritus’ battle-cry as they stepped forward. The wind seemed to echo those shouts and magnify them across the sands and I swear by all the old gods that those who say Roman valour is dead should have been with us that day.





The Saxons unnerved by the lingering cavalry on their flanks moved the engage the legionaries as quickly as they could. To rough shouts and taunts, they clashed their shields and gave out obscene gestures which goaded the men. Our line officers held their nerve though and barked at those few men tempted to break ranks and rush the enemy. Seated on my horse, I could see how quickly the Saxons rushed forward loosing what little cohesion they had and colliding all along our lines in an unruly mess of shattering spears and hacking swords. We answered back with our heads low behind our shields and our swords darting out like serpents’ tongues. This was Roman discipline versus barbarian aggression - the age-old equation which only has one end. All along the lines now fighting reached a pitch and great clouds of missiles peppered both sides. The II Augusta stood fast to the shouts of ‘hold the line’. ‘look to your standard’, ‘remember your orders’. It was then that I sent dispatch riders to both cavalry vexillations with orders to close in from the rear and annihilate the Saxon skirmishers and bowmen in their rear.





What followed was inevitable as it was merciless. The two cavalry units rode down the lightly-armed rear elements of the Saxon army in a thundering charge even as we closed in around the main Saxon force by extending our lines. Like a well-oiled mechanism, the II Augusta responded to the shouts of the ducenarii and centenarii and the lines rippled left and right like snakes moving through soft grass. Before the barbarians knew what was happening, our rear lines had flanked them and closed in on them from the sides. Panic set in then and I wonder what went through their chieftain’s mind, knowing as he must that retreat was impossible thanks to the fire-ships in the night. It became a slaughter then as we hacked them down without mercy and our cavalry rode up alongside the infantry to dispatch those that tried to flee.







I can report that of the near three thousand enemy barbarians, scarcely a hundred were able to escape the field of battle. Our exculcatores will take delight in hunting them down over the next few days like dogs. Honours were awarded as per Roman military law, and I must single out Centenarius Barbicius and Ducenarius Artorius for especial mention for their action in slaying the Saxon chieftain among his bodyguards.



We remain ever vigilant along the litoral, my Comes.

Well, that was fun - writing with no over-arching narrative. I could pick and choose from all the campaign events and really enjoy myself!

If anyone's interested -

Evagrius was cut down in the deserts leading a small Comitatus deep into Berber territory a turn before the Berbers proposed a truce.

Barbitio is holding the northern limes well against the Alemanni but Julian is in the process of stripping away his front-line troops for action against the Franks in Gaul.

Equitius is successfully hiding in Samarobriva awaiting the relief force from Julian which has been delayed due to Frankish forces moving south.

Fravitta's command was decimated while on long-range recon in Pictish territory but the Wall held in the east - the western section is now under siege while a Pictish army by-passed the remains of the Fourth Gallic Cohort at Vindolanda and stormed Eboracum, which is resisting.

Despite barbarian forces surrounding the countryside of Augusta Treverorum, both Florentius and Macrinus continue to remain secure in the town and also harass the barbarians. Felix was unable to assassinate Chnodomarius and vowed to slay his cousin instead which he duly accomplished with relish.

Silvanus' cautious optimism was misplaced. Six months later, an Alemanni horde rolled out of the forests and is now besieging the little town and its small garrison. There are no relief forces nearby.

Tiberius and his litoral command remains secure despite Saxon longboats harassing and blockading Venta Icenorum in retaliation for the massacre of the raiding party and its ships. So far, no Saxon has dared set foot upon the island again.

It was tempting to write about Julian himself but I wanted to allow access to him only through his subordinates and their own agendas - which I think worked well and might be a model to enlarge upon when IJ 3 (when?!?!?) comes out.

End of AAR FOR A WEEK!