[RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Legacy Of The Father [COMPLETE]

[McScottish]

If I wanted to fight the Romans, I might well hire a band of experienced mercenaries rather than rely on some wet behind the ears levy troops

Well, the guys are Evocati, ex-legionnaires, but I have just played the campaign a wee bit further and...well...all I can say is that I am pretty surprised at what's gone down. You shall soon be able to judge for yourself just how surprised that was, in the next few updates.

[McScottish]

First Taste Of Battle – Summer 621 A.U.C

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Sometimes in life, only the Gods know why, events truly conspire to fracture and sweep away everything you once had and to leave you with absolutely nothing except for a clean sheet of papyrus and the fleshy construct that is your own body. Such events, such situations, such dramatics; I came to know them all by the time I reached by eighteenth year of age, and I shall tell you now that it is not a story I enjoy retelling but one that I will write down without hesitation in these scrolls so that, one day, people may know the truth and know how and why I lived my life.

When Geminus said we were going to be 'blooded' I can honestly say I had no idea what he was talking about, my grandfather however did, and gave a low growl as he followed after the pure-blooded Roman leading us through the camp. The eyes of my paterfamilias moved constantly as we strode toward our own, shared, tent, never focusing on one spot for too long but taking in every detail with his sweeping glances. I could tell just by these actions that he had fallen back on old habits, tempted now and then to shout something out at a nearby soldier but biting his tongue instead.

It transpired that what he meant, as he told us later that day, was that we, some hundred and such Romans, were going to march north in Venetia and put an end to the murderous rampage of some 'free Celts' that had swarmed down from the Alps to pillage merchants and their caravans and to burn crops.

I can honestly say now that is is a misconception to believe, simply because Gallia Cisalpina and a good expanse of the Alps had been under Roman control for centuries, that native culture and all that that entails has been completely wiped out. This is a fallacy, a myth made up by Roman writers to make the citizens of the empire feel safer at night, for in corners of Alps and of the entire Roman Empire, where no soldiers of the empire can reach or dare tread, there continue to remain tribes and cultures with who retain their language, customs and ways of making war. This is something my father always taught me before his death, his love of studying other cultures as deeply ingrained into my own life as it was into his.

We marched for weeks on end, stops and rests a rare commodity, Geminus eager to get to the battle and destroy these barbarians where they stood. He knew they would not run from us, not only because the Celts were and had always been known for their bravery, but mostly because they likely outnumbered us and believed they could win, something that had often been their undoing when facing experienced and well-drilled troops in days gone by and something that held true even then.

**********

The battlefield was halfway up a mountain, a series of interconnecting roadways trailing off in every direction, copses and gatherings of trees dotted all about the soon-to-be battlefield and uneven ground all around us. We would never back down, nor shy away from combat however, and Geminus took his time to form us into a perfect square in preparation for battle while he took his position on our right flank.

I stood in the battle-line myself, seventeen years of age, shoulder to shoulder with men who were past their prime but not yet entirely out of the chariot race that is life. Next to them, clad in my grandfathers mail and helmet, ill-fitting but well kept as it was, I looked very much like the young boy that I was at the time and felt it just as much.

It is an unfortunate truth that, placed in the second rank of the cohort, I could not keep my knees from banging together or my bowels from churning as I saw the Celts approach from directly across the field. They had no intention of waiting for us to come to them, aggression being all they knew, and we on the other hand had exactly the same idea.

“Cohort, forward!” Geminus yelled above the din of our enemies, waving his sword down and pointing to our front, our feet moving mostly in unison except for mine of course, for I had not been instructed in group combat or formation fighting even in the weeks leading up to the skirmish. Though it would probably have benefited me more if I had been, in the end it made no difference.

“Cohort halt! Ready...pilum!”

Our formation came to a halt just at the edge of some uneven ground, studded with jagged rocks and patches of mud from recent rainfall, our arms cocking back in preparation of launching our missiles in a graceful arc that would hopefully disrupt the enemies charge before we hit them like a hammer breaking stone.

Between launching my projectile and charging, I took a long hard look at the men we were fighting, for they were men and not the animals that most Romans made them out to be. Ferocious looking men with drooping moustaches, most of them in their prime, those at the fore wearing little else than a pair of plaid bracae whilst those behind them I could at least see had the protection of glinting mail armour and near-Roman style helmets.

All chanted words and phrases as they came at us, Geminus halting us until the enemy ranks began to become disorganised due to the rough terrain, a smile splitting his features under his crested Attic helm as he ordered the pilum thrown into their milling ranks. This was done with precision and excellent timing, the javelins embedding themselves in bodies up to the pyramid shaped head. Some men screamed as they died, some cursed, some men went silent, but very few who fell ever got back to their feet again.

Seeing such a thing from a distance had been enough for me, and I was more than willing to leave the whole ridiculous idea of mine for good, but by the time I was anywhere near this conclusion I had already drawn my gladius with the rest of my comrades and felt a shield hit my back as our front rank impacted against the shields of the heavier Celts I had espied earlier.

Wielding their longswords with proficiency, their lighter armed brothers fighting Geminus and his cavalry to my right, they lay about themselves with whirling swings and strikes of powerful proportions. Shields were splintered,skulls were cracked and within minutes the entire scene had become on of mass butchery and death.

When the man in front of me, an older soldier named Aurelius, collapsed as a longsword took off a piece of his skull, I was forced into the front rank and forced to rely on the intensive man-to-man training that my grandfather had given me, soiling myself even as my blade penetrated the rusted mail links of my enemies armour and punctured his flesh as if it were animal meat.

I will not be false, and will readily say that I openly wept as the next growling face surged toward me, the larger and more weighty Celt attempting to smash me beneath his feet by sheer force alone, his sword causing me to sway back and very nearly lose my footing. In the end, completely unaware of his surroundings, it was my enemy who made that mistake, his foot catching on a protruding rock and literally causing his body to lift up and throw itself onto my blood-seeking gladius.

By the time Geminus had broken his enemies back and sent them fleeing, returning to strike those I fought in their rear ranks, I was exhausted, sweat beading my forehead and dripping down to temporarily blind me, the leather cap I wore beneath my unfitting helmet drenched in that same moisture. My muscles, as fine as they could be considered, burnt with the exertion of thrusting my blade forward again and again, into wood, metal and the bodies of other men. I was more than ready to collapse by the time the more senior of the enemy, who fought till the last man, had all been dispatched and sent to the Netherworld below, or wherever they believed their own people went after death.

**********

After gathering the bodies, burying some and burning others, Geminus called me to his side and told me where we were to go next.

“Borbrentas,” he said to me in his melodious tones, “I have decided to accede to your grandfathers request, since he is my friend and I like him much. So, by the winter months of this year, we shall be, if the Gods will it, recruiting men in your grandfathers homeland of Dacia.”

Certainly the news sent a thrill of excitement and anticipation up my spine but, in as numb state as I was, I could not truly take in everything the more seasoned soldier Geminus said to me. This would turn out to be to my impairment in the future, but we shall come to that in good time, all in good time.

For now, let me give you some advice, whomever you may be; always listen to both your friends and your enemies, never turn your back on either, always trust your instincts and should you seek to die a heroes death then always do it upon the battlefield.

I shall tell you next of our travels to Dacia and what befell us there, in that frigid but beautiful land of wolves and wild-men, but for now I must lay my writing implements aside sleep once more.

- B. M. Laenas

[Boustrophedon]

Fantastic to see you tackle a new AAR I'll be following this! +rep

[Ganbarenippon]

I enjoyed the last two updates very much. You are a prolific writer, two updates in as many days! I think I haven't managed two since November. Of course, my favourite part was the Bosporan raiders! Very nice, it's a strategy I might consider taking with my AAR, but not until a nastier King emerges! Great stuff my friend!

[McScottish]

(Credit to puck5926 on pucksauce.com)


Betrayal, Bereavement And Mourning – Winter 621 A.U.C

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Please allow me to weave you now, my reader, a tale of betrayal and a tale of sacrifice, a tale of bravery beyond the call of duty and vestiges of honour retained long after death. It is a tale that I am most reluctant to tell, for it pains me deeply and almost above all others, yet I must endeavour to carry on regardless, if the entire mosaic of history and my history is to be complete by the time of my death.

So soak in these words I write for you, on this papyri scroll, sit down and cast your eyes upon them, and read what all should know.

**********

Having had my first taste of combat, and still spitting the bitter sensation of it from my mouth, I was not eager to encounter further hardships of battle and warfare. So, reader, you can imagine my delight when I was told that we were simply doing to cross the north-eastern border of the Roman Empire and head through Pannonia Inferior into Dacia where my grandfather could spend some time doing as he pleased, whilst the rest of us recruited fierce local tribesmen into our small band of, currently, only Roman citizens.

The journey through Venetia was a most enjoyable time of my life, the sun shining down on us and our small column of men and wagons regularly stopping to swim, bathe and eat beside the rivers and lakes of the northern territory. All the while we spoke of the past, our present circumstances and what we hoped for the future to hold, all extremely pleasant of a cool evening in the Venetian grasslands at the low foot of the Alpine mountains. Yes, it was a very good time indeed, one that I often look back on with great fondness as a time when things were simple and I was young and relatively carefree.

Throughout the journey my grandfather could not stop speaking of the sights, sounds, tastes and all other things that we would experience once we reached Dacia. He said that, although they had been influenced by the Romans and traded verily with them, that the Dacians retained a culture and religion all of their own, that they fought as they had since the beginning of time and that their women were some of the most beautiful you could find anywhere.

Well, his enthusiasm was contagious, and we were all very soon speaking of these so-called sights and sounds that we would be educated in.

Summer turned to winter as we marched, the seasons changing like the will of fickle Gods, and although we no longer stopped to rest and bathe in the frigid waters of the lakes and rivers, our high spirits could seemingly not be dampened by the constant falling of snow from the skies of the bleak and cutting winds that whipped up our cloaks and chilled us through our mail.

But, as we all know, such tales must come to an end eventually...and the end of this one was waiting for us only a few miles over the border, so it happened.

Our company of just over a hundred men and a following of seven wagons full of the supplies and spare arms and armour that we needed, as well as as many followers that we had picked up along the way, those who were useful, blacksmiths and such, crossed into Pannonia Inferior on a crisp winters day. We crossed over a roughshod wooden bridge, rickety and likely to fall out from beneath us at any moment, a Roman auxiliary fortress and camp-village named Castellum Equos by the Roman settlers and auxiliary soldiers that garrisoned its walls located only a few miles north of the river crossing.

For days we marched, days turning into weeks, and after three weeks of marching and making roads inland we finally discovered that we were being followed. At the time we did not know by who or why, for we did not expect trouble of the magnitude we received, Dacia having been good allies with Roma for centuries and frequently allowing Roman cohorts and legions to march through their lands without hindrance. Large armies were fine but, as it would later come to pass, small columns of Roman-clad and retired citizens were not.

Geminus approached my grandfather and myself one day, voicing concerns of safety and survival, but my grandfather simply told him the same as I have told you above and assured Geminus that no harm would befall us in the lands of our staunch allies.

In this he could not have been more wrong...

**********

First to die was a foraging party who had been sent out to hunt wild game and gather what vegetables or wild berries they could, from the wild of course, we were not thieves to rob the Dacian people of the winter rations.

We lost connection with them and, after a couple of days, decided to go and look for them in the direction they had been sent. What we found there, in a shallow grave, made me want to weep fresh tears anew.

Pale bodies, livid red wounds and clear evidence of battle shown on their ice-preserved corpses, rolled one on top of the other and thrown bodily into a grave only a couple of feet deep. All their armour, weapons and tunics had been stripped from them and their dead, accusing eyes stared up at me, one finger of an elderly soldier, frozen rigidly in place, pointing up at me and his bloodless lips silently cursing me for ever more.

After we had buried them deeper, placing rocks atop them so that the scavengers of the hills and mountains would not touch their flesh again, we immediately began a backward retreat toward the bridge and what was considered by most to be the Roman frontier. Though there were truly no visible signs of this, the river simply being another river in the world, Roman soldiers patrolled the rivers and waterways and those who breached the peace of Publius were men marked for death.

They came at us again and again after that, harrowing our retreat and quickly sifting the strong from the weak, children, women and the elderly were swiftly taken either by the weather or by those who hunted us like animals through the glens, plains and woodlands of Pannonia.

Later, after all that transpired, I tried to tell myself that the tribesmen of Pannonia were beneath the Dacian yoke and that they did what they did because of it. I was, of course, a fool to believe anything so cock-eyed. We, the Romans, had taken half of their land from the Boii in the later days of the Republic and sent many of them into exile where the Dacians ruled and the Pannonians followed. Both people wanted death for the Romans, the Pannonians because of their blood we had shed and the Dacians, I think, simply because they were too power-hungry and greedy.

Anyway, we were slowly picked off one-by-one, some wagons falling behind had to be abandoned and a number of our more 'veteran' soldiers staying to hold off the enemy for as long as they could.

It was one fateful day, mere days forced-march from the river and safety, that the enemy forces, numbering in their thousands as we later discovered, surrounded us and trapped our small force and bought us to battle on a snow-covered plain edged by woodland and clumps of trees.

I recall that a blizzard rose that day, the Evocatii and myself attempting to hide in a thickly brushed number of trees while Geminus and his mounted troopers rode off at full speed toward the enemies left flank. We lost sight of him then, able to hear the enemies chilling warcries and make out the shrill wail of their horns as they advanced and sought us out, a full half-hour passing before the left flank of the enemy swept past our hiding place, hundreds of bearded faces ignoring us and focusing on the diversion created by our leader.

“Up, men of Roma, and fight for the land that birthed you!”

Taking up this cry of an anonymous soldier, we broke from our cover, hurling pilum at our surprised enemy and throwing ourselves on them like wild animals. Keeping a loose formation we fought, man-on-man, Roman-to-savage, a gladius stabbing and a bone club swinging and all around the battle produced more fodder for the carrion. It was as I ran my sword through the hardened body of a younger warrior that I looked up to see Geminus, alone and riding hard, shout towards us to hold the line and fight on.

What happened next seemed to take place in a dream, a whirring stone shot striking Geminus in the head and shattering both his helmet and his skull asunder, the proud Roman face pulverised into something completely unrecognisable and the cadaver sitting in the saddle and rocking back and forth as the startled horse attempted to flee.

It was then that men from the back ranks began to flee, the battle had never been about winning or losing, it had simply been about making a memorable last stand. This was an idea that, while originally accepted, seemed now to have gone out of style with the formerly sturdy soldiers of my fledgling mercenary company. To my ever eternal shame, a stain I have tried to wipe out so many times, I ran with them and did not look back.

I ran and I ran, my breath catching in my ceasing throat, discarding my borrowed shield and hastily sheathing my sword during the sprint for the wagons. My grandfather, as he always had, and now 81 years old, did not fight in the line of battle any longer and instead remained with the wagons to tell tales to the children and keep the spirits of the civilians up while their friends and lovers fought the enemy. I had hoped to return to the wagons and either make a stand or, at the least, rescue my grandfather and flee straight away.

The enemy had gotten there first.

I saw such scenes the night the likes of which I hoped never to see again in my life, but which I saw fighting if not in my dreams every time I closed my eyes. I saw that the Dacians, the stock from which my grandfather had come, were nothing else but barbaric animals who needed to be exterminated or bought under Roman rule and taught the ways of civilisation. It was a notion I would later come to take back, but at that moment I did not care and would have wiped them all from the face of the earth if I had had but an ounce of godly power in my body.

Babies, bawling and desperate, were killed without mercy and tossed into the roaring wreckages of burning wagons that acted as fire-lit beacons in the snowstorm that enveloped my escape. Children were similarly dispatched, blows from swords and falx cleaving them in twain or at least disabling them enough for them to be used as slaves in the future, slaves for what tasteless purpose I did not even attempt to seek. I ran through the snow and found two Dacians in the middle of raping a Roman woman, her clothes torn and bloodied, her mouth screaming endless screams, her eyes simply looking up into the sky and wishing for death...it is hard for me to write, but I left her, I left her to her fate and streaked through the snow until I finally laid eyes upon by grandfather.

He stood before the burning carcass of a wagon, his silhouette crouched low behind a scutum and wreathed in flame, his white hair blowing this way and that and his right elbow pinned back and ready to strike out at any who dared to oppose him. Those who did oppose him were at least twenty strong, with more approaching, and the end was inevitable. I chose not to throw my life away needlessly, intent even then on revenge, but instead I stood and watched through the blizzard, concealed from the enemy but more than able to see the destiny of my paterfamilias and adopted father.

The first five to charge him were dispatched with professional ease, each killed by an expert thrust to their bodies, my grandfather always moving forward and coming at them as they surrounded him. His eyes flashed in the snowfall as he took the life of another, the golden torc gleaming around his neck and his aged body covered only by a simple white tunic, age had not cowed him nor bent him to its will and even now he resisted the pull of the boatman with every breath and inch of his being.

It was by treachery, as all things were then, that he was defeated and laid low.

A common goat-herder, no older than myself but youthful and limber, leapt through the flames of the wagon behind my grandfather and bought the bulbous head of his club down atop his cranium. To his everlasting honour and glory, though bleeding heavily from the head wound and swaying this way and that, like a drunk after too much wine, Marcus the Elder fought on like a wounded lion, carving out the death sentences of at least seven more men before his strength deserted him entirely and the Dacians closed in like a pack of wolves.

Obscured by bodies and by snow, my eyes no longer able to see him, I ran toward the direction of the river and once more shed open tears for all those who had died.

**********

You may hate me, reader, as I hate myself. You may say that I should have helped him, should have thrown his assailants to the ground and fought with him until his death and my own. I accept this hate I tell you, I accept it willingly by all the Gods above and below.

What remained of us, some thirty men, the youngest of the veterans who had marched into Pannonia and now ran from it, grouped together on the right side of the bridge before making our way across to the opposite shore under the moonless darkness of night.

We torched the bridge behind us for good measure, our hearts pounding in our chests and our sore and world-weary feet and bodies carrying us northward toward Castellum Equos, a warning of betrayal carried on the river of shed Roman blood, and a gathering of military might that would shake the very foundations of the earth.


- B. M. Laenas

[Diomede]

Damn, still not allowed to rep you. Only just read the last chapter and there's another. hurrah!

[Mr. Bean Laden]

I just read the first two updates, and it's really promising, good stuff McScottish, I'll definately follow this

[Ybbon]

a very ignominious end to a very glorious character. Maybe, "mutantur omnia nos et mutamur in illis" (All things change, and we change with them.) as a motto for Brabentus to go forward with, and "faber est quisque fortunae suae" (every man is architect of his own fortune) for Marcus' obituary?

The king is dead, long live the king!

[McScottish]

@Diomede: Indeed, my friend. Such is the amount that I wish, nay, need to write at the moment. For such is the tale.

@Mr. Bean Laden: You should also read the prequel thread to this AAR, it can be found in the introduction post to this AAR. Glad you like it though and happy to have you following! As I to do follow your own with relish.

@ybbon: Indeed, ybbon, ignominious indeed. It was odd, Dacia had never attacked before and kept the peace for centuries, Rome had "military access granted" as well, yet as soon as my little force marched over their borders they were struck by 2054 wailing Dacians. Only 30 evocatii made it out of that, having used up all the movement points they had. Poor old Marcus, may he drink and feast with his ancestors now.

Well... "mutantur omnia nos et mutamur in illis"

Those Dacians have made the biggest mistake of their, soon to be cut short, lives. Believe that.

[McScottish]

Conversation With A God – Winter 621 A.U.C

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

"That is indeed the Gallic cloak of ipsius imperatoris centurio Marcus Laenas, I know because he wore it at all times, even when I offered him the position in the first place. Both he and I were younger men then, I'm afraid."

The words drifted to me as if from a far off place, hollow and echoing in my ears, before I realised that I had once again that my mind had wandered away of its own accord and that, in the presence of a divine Emperor, I should certainly be paying a great deal more attention.

We sat, the pair of us, in one of the many courtyards of the Imperial Palace in Roma, surrounded by beauty on every side it was a far cry from the views I had been lapping up in Pannonia mere weeks before.

After my remaining men and I had reached the Roman auxiliary fort, declaring ourselves as citizens and urgently in need of sanctuary, we had informed the praefectus of the fort and cohort within of what has transpired. It took a little convincing, and some strong coercion, but in the end he gave in and handed me one of the fastest horses in the fort and told me to ride to Roma and bring this incident and declaration of war before the Emperor himself.

I did as he had asked, riding hard for a week or more, I know not how long in truth, until I came to the gates of the palace and demanded entry to see the divine Publius. Of course, I had been kept waiting for quite some time, time that was wasted as they discovered who I was, where my family was, if I was truly a citizen, who my father and grandfather were, and so forth. It was only when Aulus Marcellus, the man who had replaced Vatia at Roma as the Emperors advisor, came to me and questioned me himself that I received my promised audience.

Marcellus had already heard all the details, waving away the peregrini that guarded me day and night, and ushered me into a plain room with a roaring fire, two stools, a window arch and nothing else.

He was waiting for me there, the Emperor, a man of noble bearing and once extremely handsome features, dressed in a toga and with a small laurel wreath around his august brow. I must admit that he looked quite out of place sitting on a mere stool, for a grand throne would have suited him far better.

Such was his presence that, for a good while, I could not even look him in the eyes and bowed my head to peer at the recently cleaned floor of the room instead. He had eventually requested, not ordered, that I lift my head and how can one not comply with the living embodiment of our Gods on earth.

"What will you do now, august one?" I asked in a small, almost child-like voice, "the Dacians have taken his life, and those of Roman citizens, in cold blood. Killed your veterans, killed your friend...killed them all."

That majestic brow of the Imperial Emperor furrowed then, his two white masses of hair almost meeting one another in the centre, his mind clearly racing with a million different thought and not all of them applicable to this exact moment.

"Did you know, Borbrentas, that Numerius Maximus has recently died?" I shook my head slowly and he went on, "he was sixty-eight years old and died in his bed, leaving a ten year old son in his stead. My own son is nearly sixteen, moving ever closer to adulthood, ready to supplant me when I finally meet my heavenly family. Now, only very recently, news reached my ears that Titus, my "Emperor of the East", one we never thought would produce children, had indeed had a son...Lucius."

He hissed the name like a snake spitting venom, his features twisting into something altogether more undignified than I had previously seen, before reverting back to an expression of unreadability.

"So, nephew of my trusted friend and advisor, I am stuck at an impasse. Titus clearly wishes to become Emperor when I am gone and, now, I wish for my own son to take my place. This son of Numerius is the last of the Maximus line, a line that ruled the Republic with an iron fist and will that shaped it into what it is today. What would you have me do?"

At first I could not believe that he had asked me but, eventually, I thought deeply for a moment and then answered as honestly as I could.

"I would place my own son on the throne, for the people of the empire wish to see a dynasty and not a sudden change. Titus, and his son, I would make protectors and regents of the eastern provinces and all that entails, without giving him the power of an Emperor. As for Lucius, well, what better way than to make he and your son the very greatest of friends. Like you and my grandfather perhaps. It will be six years before the son of Numerius comes of age, by which time your own should already be Emperor, raise him here in Roma and I believe you should have no need to trouble yourself further on that matter."

Publius, almost regally, raised a quizzical brow and then nodded slowly, "so it is done," he intoned and I shall be honest once more and say that I felt a very real wave of excitement at being able to sway the Emperors decision in such a way.

"Borbrentas Marcus Laenas, son of Diuzenes Marcus Laenas," he began and I almost snapped to attention on my stool, "your counsel is wise and I would have need of it for future generations when I am gone. I hereby give you the position of ipsius imperatoris centurio to my son and heir when I am gone, along with all the lands, payments and hard duties which such a title entails. Do you accept?"

There was no way I could not, and so I, dumbstruck, just nodded my head.

"Good..." he said, a smile playing over his otherwise expressionless features, "now, centurio, what would you have me do about these Dacians? These Dacians who killed your grandfather and spilt the blood of Roman citizens?"

"I would kill them sure, kill them all."

"So be it." The Emperor intoned once more, "prepare yourself for war then centurio. There shall be rivers of blood, oceans of tears and by the time the campaign is over the Dacian people shall be utterly broken."

**********

I stumbled from the palace that day with little to no idea of what had just happened, such was the impact it had upon me. Though I was dressed in the best-made mail and carried a document officially recognising my position, I still could not believe what had happened. I did guess, however, that if anyone could just raise me up from obscurity like that, then it had to be the Emperor.

Wealth, fame, power, it was all mine now and all I had to do was reach out and take it if I wanted it!

The Gods work in the most mysterious ways indeed.

Before leaving I had been told to return to the border fort where I had left my veterans, to bring them up to strength again, and to await the massing of the empires armies in preparation for the invasion of Dacia and all its holdings. Publius also informed me that the Germani chieftains had already promised their military assistance.

There would be death, there would be slavery, and vengeance on these animals would be mine.


- B. M. Laenas

[Mr. Bean Laden]

I finally had time to read the rest of your AAR, a really astonishing update, really

I like how you describe political affairs between the roman Emperor-wannabes, and it was very surprising to see the young one suddenly "drop" into such an important and fine position.

Waiting for the next update!

[McScottish]

I finally had time to read the rest of your AAR, a really astonishing update, really

I like how you describe political affairs between the roman Emperor-wannabes, and it was very surprising to see the young one suddenly "drop" into such an important and fine position.

Waiting for the next update!

My thanks, Mr Laden. Indeed, I was not certain I would even give him such an honour, but Publius is old and scared and needs someone of the bloodline that he trusts to guard his son. What better man-boy than the nephew of his first "chosen" centurion?

Has Publius made the correct choice? Will it be his son who ascends the throne of the Caesar's? Will Titus simply accept the offer of controlling the east, Marcus Antonius style? Will the Dacian campaign be a success?

Who can say, and who can know...only time shall tell.

An update will be coming soon, of that I promise.

[Boustrophedon]

I need more updates on this it has become my life force these days! I'll bribe you with rep

[Justinian Australis]

I had completely forgotten about this incredibly well written story...and I concur with Boustrophedon....more updates!

[McScottish]

Negotiations, Compromise And The Council Of Salonae – Summer 622 A.U.C to Summer 624 A.U.C

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

“Here we are, sir,” said the older Roman as he gestured toward a parade-ground containing a number of fully equipped riders, “your present and hopefully long-term command.”

Lucius H. Pontius, until recently Curator Germanorum, gave me the sort of thin-lipped tight-mouthed smile I imagine one would give another if they wafted a piece of excrement beneath their nose.

He was a fifty-two year old Roman of Patrician stock and ancient lineage, conceited and extravagant in his ways but also utterly loyal to his Emperor. It was well known that he also indulged in flights of poetry and verse, thinking himself quite the Pindar, his highly religious tendencies permeating into his poetry in the form of divine musings from the mouths of a hundred different characters or more.

It was now I, the Emperors own centurion, who was recently gifted the rank of Curator Germanorum but who also had no the foggiest idea what to do with such a title or how to handle the command of an ala of elite Germanic horsemen. I hate to write it now, but, at the time, I was actually thankful for the assistance that Pontius provided be with. After all, I was greener to battle than the fresh-bloomed leaves of a spring-time tree, my only experience of real battle being a massacre and a flight to a river in the blackest of circumstances.

In this case, Pontius would act as one of my advisors, but also as a co-commander of the German Horseguard, providing me with valuable information and all he had learnt about how to command such barbarians and so on and so forth.

My second advisor, I will readily admit, was far more interesting.

Berengar of the Anglii was what one could call the epitome of the emblematic Germani warrior, a paragon of all that was and is there people.

In appearance he was a tall man, taller even than myself, and I was tall for a Roman due to coming from barbarian stock, thus he towered above men of the Cohortis Peregrinorum and even the Chatti Guard, his head was a mane of slightly curling hair of an obsidian colour, eyes of of a deep green peering out from beneath a thick brow. It was quite clear, if one looked closely, that the Germans nose had been broken or disjointed more than once, various scars covering his face and one particularly thick one along the right side of his neck. The clean limbs and thick muscle of the Germanic fighter meanwhile was clearly evident, legs with muscles like malleable iron, flexible and supple, arms with corded sinew like that of a ships ropes and fists that looked as if they could crush a mans head in their grip.

Truly, he was everything that we “civilised men despised, a barbarian of the highest order but a lover of life as I had never seen and never have since.

It surprised me even more, some moments after entering the training paddock of the German Horseguard, when Berengar, accompanied by a Romano-German translator named Avidius, padded over to me and let a wide smile split his face. When he finally did speak, at my behest as his new commanding officer, his voice was like two rocks grating against one another matched with the resonance and tone of a deep glen or valley.

“Berengar, decurio of the German Horseguard, welcomes his new chieftain and prays that he shall be pleased with all he surveys.”

I gave a small nod to the distinctively Roman-looking Avidius, his face clean-shaven and his sandy-blonde hair cut short, as was the fashion, before I asked him to ask this German a few questions. From going back and forth, using Avidius as the middle-man, I discovered that Berengar, this mountain of Germanic muscle, was only the same age as I and had been fighting since he had been old enough to walk. Apparently his entire family had served the Romanii as auxiliaries, Berengar being the only member of that ilk to reach such a prestigious position in the Emperors own horseguard.

“Please tell the decurio, and the men, that we are ordered to make ready and to move out at first light tomorrow. It shall be our duty, along with the Chatti Cohort and the Praetorian Guard, to escort Publius and the royal family to Salonae in Dalmatia. He a meeting will take place between his highness and his subordinate Titus Caesar...that is all you need to know.”

**********

I did not sleep well that night, nor the night after, nor during the course of any night since my grandfathers death. I was haunted by the memory, so vivid in my mind every time I shut my eyes, his aged face crying out for my help and my feet planted to the spot so that I could not move. When all was over, and his glazed eyes stared up at me, his bloodless lips moved and cursed me in the name of all the Gods, blood-tinged spittle landing at my sandalled feet.

When I finally moved into the sunlight, helped onto my horse by a rather burly horseman, I say sorely in the saddle and, with a croaked voice, ordered the advance of the horseguard to join with the Imperial convoy heading toward the east.

Somewhere in the orient, from his eastern “capital” of Mazaka, Titus Caesar should have been mirroring us but instead it would turn out that he would refuse to even move from his position for at least another year. Even with this information, Publius Imperator Caesar decided to make the long journey nonetheless, and we set off from Roma as planned, taking the Via Maximus toward the province of Dalmatia and its capital of Salonae.

It was widely believed that Publius chose the ancient Dalmatian city because he was just too lazy and too old, being sixty-three years of age at the time, to bother travelling into the eastern provinces to meet with his adjunct Caesar. When, in reality, there were many political and military reasons for such an action, and such a place chosen to hold his “Council of Salonae” as it would come to be known.

Firstly, he wished to make Titus feel out of his depth, the soft life of the east having already infiltrated the mind of Titus and caused him to become more like an eastern despot than he would care to admit. Secondly, the forces gathering for the oncoming conflict with the tribal peoples of Dacia were amassing on the border of Pannonia Inferior, Publius not being able to waste time relaxing in Roma while there was a war to plan and logistics to take note of.

Our convoy reached Salonae in the deep snow of winter, 622 Ab Urbe Condita, three mules and two men having died on the journey but no harm having come to the Imperial family.

I watched patiently from my mount as the bobbing white crests of the Praetorians helmets marched past, banners flying and hob-nailed sandals scratching for purchase against icy and perilous roads. They were, in spite of their lowered position amongst the household troops, a fierce and well-disciplined fighting force. Though they spent most of their time in their castra just outside of Roma, doing Gods knew what, they seemed all in prime health and more than capable of seeing off any threats to the Emperor during this coming campaign.

As for Salonae, the city itself, it was pre-Roman in origin, built by the native Dalmatian denizens of the province before the arrival of any Roman troops, and had formerly retained its native structures and so forth. As it was, the buildings, all of them, had been remodelled on the typical Roman design of the capital city of Roma, but on a much smaller scale. There were organised streets and roadways, bath-houses and brothels, barracks and tabernae and wide open forums, all the things which an honesty Roman city needed.

Publius, as Emperor, had been given the palace of the cities governor, the rector provinciae of all Dalmatia as a matter of fact, in which to hold the meeting and to enjoy himself during the remainder of his stay in the city of Salonae. The only military presence, for most of the troops were gone to join the mustering in Pannonia, were the Emperors own guard and four cohorts of the Legio XX Valeria Victrix. No doubt Titus would bring his own men with him, which he did when he finally deigned it prudent to arrive, including the Nervian Guard, so the matter of security amongst the two most powerful men in the Roman Empire was a considerably small one indeed.

**********

A summer like the forges of the smithy in heat, burning and stripping men of long bouts of vigour without plenty of water, was the environment in which I first met the young son of our Emperor. It would be a meeting that would give my life purpose and assure me a position at his side when he too ascended the throne of his father.

I was there, on his sixteenth year when he passed into manhood, and recall the entire ceremony quite clearly.

Publius the Elder, Emperor of Rome, sat on an ornately carved chair of sturdy wood, his wife Matidia at his side, the woman gifted with proud and noble bearing and holding herself as if she were a queen and not simply the wife of an Emperor. At the appointed time, flanked by two Chattii, Publius the Younger entered the columned room and made his way over to the feet of his father.

“It is commonplace for a boy passing into manhood to be paraded to the forum and enrolled on the list of citizens,” intoned the sturdy-looking demi-God that was our supreme ruler, “but you, my son, shall get no such procession. For you do not need one. You are the son of an Emperor, and as such your name will soon be on the lips of all within a few years, surely I will not last for much longer.”

Publius the Younger looked as if he were about to cry, but instead he simply removed the child's bulla from his neck and lay his crimson-bordered toga praetexta before the feet of his father. Publius Imperator Caesar, rising from the chair, paced slowly toward his son and finally stopped only inches away. With a gesture of his hand a white tunic was produced and Publius Rutilius commanded by his sire to dress in it, which he did without question, a second gesture from the Emperor gaining the thick folds of the toga virilis which were then wrapped about the slightly over-tight frame of his son.

From the rear of the hall, small and frail whereas her husband was rotund and tall, Ulpia, thirteen year old bride of Publius Rutilius, watched with two wide hazel eyes from beneath a fringe of blonde hair which reminded me distinctly of my aunt Arzas. It occurred to me then that I knew nothing about her, save that I had seen her before, but the pair of them did seem to love one another earnestly and this was a subject in which I always believed that youth had the advantage over those of an older age.

“Borbrentas,” my name came as if from afar, hurled toward me like a tidal wave or a lightning bolt, and I blinked my eyes before turning and giving a perfect salute to my Emperor, “this is the man who will be teaching you all he has been taught. You shall spend a year with him and learn.”

The distinctly pig-like eyes of the boy narrowed and I could see jaw muscles twitching beneath layers of fat, produced by too much good eating and too little exercise. Yet, within those eyes, I saw the spirit of his father and would come to learn that one should certainly not judge others by their appearances.

“Good,” proclaimed Publius Imperator, “today, my son, you become a man. With it you shall face many challenges and responsibilities. I have tried to raise you well, to prepare you for this, and I am certain that you will make me proud and the empire a fine caesar one day.”

**********

Months passed, myself and the son of Publius becoming closer, as a teacher and student should, the son of Caesar maybe not possessing the body of a God but certainly something close to the mind of one. He was shrewd, fluent in language and rhetoric and able to debate for hours on end. This was marred by his passions, his flaming emotions, his blood both terribly hot and his mind far too hasty with decisions when it needed to be cool and serene. Then again, at least I knew that Publius Nobilissimus Caesar would be most unsuited to the teachings of the Stoics, which so many Romans and especially Roman Caesars seemed to favour.

It was in the company of the two Publius' that I was to listen to the proceedings of the Council of Salonae and the negotiations that would decide the fair rulership and succession of an entire empire.

When Titus first entered the room, that winter of 623, I was not certain whether it was colder within the room with the two opposing sides or colder without where the snow never ceased to fall and the ice never ceased to form. In the end, I decided it was inside the room where the chill penetrated my mail and caused a cold feeling to run down my spine.

Titus, all of forty-seven, took a seat on the opposite side of the table and refused to remove his Attic-style helmet even when requested to do so. He was a strong-looking man, an arrogant sneer on his face which seemed incapable of being removed, his eyes flashing between father and son and the sneer only stretching further, if that were at all possible. His attire was that of a Roman Legatus, including the crimson cloak and muscle corslet of hardened leather, his bracelet-ringed wrists coming to rest on the surface of the table as he interlocked his slender fingers and leant forward.

Behind him and all around the thick doors were closed and bolted from without, no one able to leave until an accord had been reached between the two parties.

“Let us begin, brother.”

Publius Caesar, dressed similarly but for a laurel wreath around his crown where his helmet might be, gave a barely perceptible nod and spoke in a deliberately slow manner, so that every word could be caught, like falling rain into cupped hands.

“My dear Titus,” he began, “let me present my son to you, Publius Nobilissimus Caesar.”

The eyes of Titus, his skin bronzed by the harsh sun of Asia Minor, narrowed and he leant back in his chair, his voice barely a whisper as he spoke.

“So it is true then,” he said quietly, “you seek to replace me with this son of yours, your pact to me no longer of any consequence, my own son of none...nor that of the late Numerius Maximus, last of a noble house and line.”

Bracing himself against the table once more, his back hunched over, the “Caesar of the East” gave a short laugh and then waved a dismissive hand.

“It is of no concern to me, let him have it, this Nobilissimus Caesar of yours. The people will respond better to a blooming dynasty anyway, rather than this leaping about the Imperial line has been doing so far anyway. All I ask in return is this...”

Publius, both of them, leant in to hear what the gaunt figure had to say, his terms and demands.

“...your son, blood relation that he is, may have the title of Nobilissimus Caesar and all that that entails, lands and so forth. In return I ask only this. That you recognise me as you and your heirs representative in the east, nominal Caesar there, with free reign over all military units currently stationed there as well as the economy. Of course, I shall always be of service to the one Imperator Caesar, if my policies or the like should get too...out of hand...with you, then I will be only too happy to improve upon them. I shall be subject to all your overarching laws, military actions etcetera.”

Publius the Elder nodded his head, once and with great weight, “it is agreed then. You submit to all laws and requests of my son and I, in exchange we give you free reign of the eastern provinces of Asia Minor, Cyprus, Syria, Judaea, Aegyptus, Lycia et Pamphylia as well as Cyrenaica and Cilicia. What say you to this?”

With a smile plastered on his lips, Titus slider his chair back and marched silently to the side of the elderly Emperor, holding out a hand and waiting until Publius gripped the forearm offered to him. Easing himself toward the ear of the Emperor, he whispered something that made the muscles of his jaw tighten and his eyes set ablaze.

“I shall return to Mazaka as soon as possible, Bosporan raiders all over the damned shorelines and never seem to stop coming.”

The smile never left his brown and pinched features as he left, the doors opening on command and letting the recently untitled Caesar leave the room just as he had entered, except with far more than he had first had.

“What did he say, Augustus?” I queried, knowing that I alone of all in the room, save his son, could ask without being executed, “he said that he would not lend any assistance to us in the Dacian campaign. Not military, not financial, and he also now has command of a number of western-based legions. We surely signed a pact with Hades.”

**********

“Eight full legio et auxilia eius and at least twenty-four separate formations of auxilia of varying types and sizes, not counting those men we could strip from the Danubian limes if you commanded, Augustus.”

Publius, his son hovering over his shoulder like a well trained hawk, leant forward and surveyed the map of Dacia he had ordered drawn even before this campaign had been in its earliest stages. Like most maps of the time, and today even, they showed very little except major roadways that were well known, some larger settlements and towns, and some religious sites. This, however, was all Publius needed.

“Our original force should suffice. We shall march straight toward Sarmizegetusa Regia and besiege it, cutting the head from the body before the body has a chance to realise what is happening and react.”

It was an unoriginal plan, yes, but it was a plan made by an ageing Caesar who wished to be remembered for expanding the Roman Empire, not simply sitting behind its frontiers and waiting for the enemy. In the east, Titus had wiped the Pontic Kingdom away and would soon do the same to the last remaining outpost of Greek civilisation outside of Greece itself, the Thracian-founded Kingdom of Bosporus.

Publius was forced to do something to eclipse him, and what better way to do this than to invade the lands of a strong and semi-civilised foe, his lands rich in all manner of useful resources, and to wipe out or enslave every traitor of them who would stand against a former ally who had never been anything but kind to them.

“I shall lead the Praetorian Guard and my household forces from the centre, our formation shall be as a column and will be divided evenly, with auxiliaries bringing up the van and the rear of our army as it winds its way through the Dacian landscape. I want alae on the wings and ahead of our forces at all times, if the enemy are to attack us then I wish to know about it.”

With a wave of his hand, majestic and regal, the Emperor dismissed us from his command tent and, taking his son with me, looking much like a piece of pork stuffed into a cooking pot which was too small for him clad in his armour, I stood on the plateau where Publius had taken up his overlooking position and watched our forces at the foot of the steep valley-side.

“Magnificent, are they not?” Commented Publius the Younger, a hint of awe in his voice, “how can Dacia stand up to such might?”

I shook my head and shrugged my shoulders, unable to give a definite answer to his question.

“The Dacii will not give in lightly, even if their capital is taken. My grandfather was of their people, and I saw him back down to no man, not even during his own death. They will fight and they will die willingly, their curved blades carving a red trail through our cohorts.”

After another shrug, I patted Publius on the back and guided him toward the path leading into the valley.

“Come, let us make sure that our forces, the forces you one day shall lead, are ready.”

- B. M. Laenas

[McScottish]

Methinks I shall go back to doing what I used to do I.E. smaller updates but more frequently. Anywho, enjoy the most recent one, hopefully the next one will contain bloodshed, we shall see.

[Mr. Bean Laden]

Nice update with great political intrigue!

I don't know about length, I don't like cutting off parts from my own story, and I really like your current style! But your choice, really.

Tell me, the son of the emperor, does he really have an ingame trait for being fat, or is it just extra stuff written in by you?

[McScottish]

Tell me, the son of the emperor, does he really have an ingame trait for being fat, or is it just extra stuff written in by you?

Yes indeed, Publius the Younger has the trait "homely", which basically means he could be considered to be quite ugly. His character portrait also portrays him as slightly "larger" than many of the rest of my generals and family members, things such as double-chins and the like.

I simply work from this, as any good writer should, to bring this portrait to the page.

[McScottish]

A Bonding Session – Summer 624 A.U.C

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

There could not possibly have been a better day to set out upon our invasion of the Dacian lands than the one which was chosen by our most beloved Publius Augustus. The sun was shining in the sky, not too hot yet not too chill, our forces armour gleamed and their weapons bristled, every man of the invading legions and their auxiliary 'helpers' with determined expressions on their faces and a sure and steady step of their marching feet. If such a force, setting out on such a day, could not conquer where others had failed, well then I told myself I would fall on my own sword in defiance of such a defeat.

Caesar had formed the column of our march in this order; a vanguard of auxiliary infantry and attached cavalry, followed by two legions, followed then by Publius himself and his household troops, then the wagons of our supplies, spare weapons etcetera, followed by the remaining legions and independent auxiliary cohorts, meaning those not attached to any of our legions.

Wings of cavalry, of varying sizes, were also sent out on our flanks and to our front and rear, to make sure that any attack would be reported well in advance and that our progress toward the Dacian capital would not be too impaired by such obstacles.

I, of course, rode with Berengar, Avidius, Pontius and the rest of the German Horseguard, the guardsmen of the Chattii mingling with their mounted cousins on the march and with no effort made to stop them. Being the only Roman amongst them, with the exclusion of the egotistical Pontius, I took as much time as I could to observe them, and during the weeks that we took to travel through Pannonia Superior came to learn a few of their words and to get I believe a little closer to Berengar.

“So, Avidius,” I said casually to the Romano-German interpretor who never left my side, “how well do you know Berengar here?” The mention of his name caused the large man to smile and give me a nod of his head, garbling something to Avidius in his rough tongue, which caused the other German to break into a smile, “well Berengar and I are brothers, I am the elder and took it upon myself to join the Roman army when I was a younger man. Berengar also says that you had best not be saying anything bad about him.”

I could not help but smile, though at the former of what he had said instead of the latter, “you,” I said with a grin, “you are his older brother?”

When Avidius looked at me, his face a blank expression and his eyes betraying nothing, the smile immediately left my face and the laughter caught in my throat. It was odd, but the more I looked at the faces of the pair, the huge warrior and the leaner man next to me, the more I could see the family resemblance. If Avidius put on more muscle and collected a few scars, why he would be the exact image of his younger brother.

“Well, by the blessed loins of Juno, so you are,” a second smile split my features and I gave a series of nods, more to myself than the German, before proceeding with my questions, “tell me about your homeland then...and feel free to consult with your brother.”

It took five minutes of constant blather between the two before they seemed to come to an agreement, both of them turning their heads to face me and Avidius giving me a small shrug.

“There is not much to tell, sir. It is a wet and marsh-covered land near the coast, thankfully untouched by your Roman trappings, but surrounded on all sides by enemy tribes who would rather cut us down than help us. Life is hard and the occupation of a warrior is far preferable to that of a farmer or shepherd, our unseasoned boys trained to kill from a young age and to defend themselves against all comers. That is really all there is to say, sir.”

“Have you ever fought the Dacian peoples before?” I asked with some trepidation, Avidius turning to his brother and his brother grunting a terse reply, “my brother says he has,” came the equally short answer, “and what does he think of their fighting prowess?” Again a small exchange of words, a flash of laughter and two eyes looking to me once more “he says 'cac'.”

At the time I did not know what he had said, but I would later come to learn that he meant dung or excrement, even giving my own short laugh at such blatant disregard for ones enemy. From what I had heard, the Dacians were a ferocious people who wielded their curved falx with extreme precision and were able to severe limbs and heads from their bodies in one fell blow.

During the march I was also fortunate enough to learn a few words of their language, a dialect of Germanic spoken by their tribe, but which most in the horseguard would be able to understand at least. These would become useful at a later date, especially in the midst of battle.

For now I simply marched along, getting to know my German companions and ignoring my Roman ones, knowing that sooner or later we would be assailed by savage tribesmen and that, when that happened, my only defence would be equally barbarous.

- B. M. Laenas

[Ybbon]

Not nit-picking but would Salonae have been snowy, wouldn't it have a Mediterranean climate, so more likely wet in winter? Artistic license I guess.

Are you still using RS2 for this, if so I was wondering how you are game playing with the Eastern and Western sides?

Anyway, excellent as ever.