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Thread: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

  1. #1

    Default Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    Valentinian, Emperor and Augustus of Rome stands upon the sun-soaked perch of a palace balcony, above the red-roof houses of the Eternal City caressed in choppy Italian sea winds. As he rarely is, he is privy to a priceless moment of solitude here, away from the exertions of empire and the cares of politics. He is not a thinking man, but in spite of his jealously-guarded antipathy for peace, he cannot resist the wanderlust into more imaginative matters, if only because of his virtuous curiosity. At a time like this, his royal mind turns into the Oscan clouds and up to the infinite matters of the human soul, and stern, pious consideration for the ethics of natural law.

    No ethical or considerate man in the lettered classes of his age may go ignorant of the looming threat of failure – it is failure, which threatens the good condition of the civilized world and casts doubt upon the whole edifice of Roman might. A sloth never like any previous has seemingly set upon the sinews of our world. And the infestation grows, as the power to reform it disappears with the rise of its choleric pitch.

    Only I, Valentinian, may yet root out the cancer which seethes inside our domain. And I will show no mercy, but be vicious, as my right and task under God, and lay sword to the form of pernicious inconstancy, as it tries to rise upon our sickly world. So that they will say, of me and of coming ages, that “where he brought his eyes upon dispute, it invariably followed as the last day of it.”

    “And not a day more.”


  2. #2

    Default Re: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    Chapter I: An Emperor and Soldiers

    I first set the game on H/H. (Also battle time-limit is on, to avoid any AI exploits). The Western Roman Empire is a stiff strategic challenge, but since we’ve a decent arm for the battles, we’ll go up one more to hard so that it won’t be as simple as slashing our way back on top. Compared to medium, hard battles are a significant leap forward that often require you to employ some micro if you intend on keeping most of your troops alive. Don’t want to be caught forgetting about any of my flanks on hard.



    Very hard is for a stronger man than I. Though I am not one who would share the praises of that pagan oaf Hercules, my virtues frankly exceed already the confines of the mortal ring. There is nothing on this Earth which may brook the force of very hard, not even the legions of Rome.

    As for our campaign difficulty, hard doesn’t just mean more aggressive AI opponents. There is also a public order modifier and an income modifier, which are affected by the difficulty level. Thus, you actually get a range of starting scenarios as the WRE depending on your difficulty. Mine, I think it fair to say, is at the brink of disaster.













    Out of six classic provinces of the Western Empire, there is only one – Britain – the smallest and least valuable province of the entire empire, not immediately on the verge of a rebellion next turn. The disorder is so bad it even threatens my homeland of Pannonia, and the front lines I have spent decades trying to enforce as an imperial officer. Julian’s achievements, heroic as they may have been, were largely for naught and more costly than they were worth. Nor did his smug embrace of the Olympian gods, so rudely catered to our times, come to anything other than a tormented end at the foothills of Asia. If anything, he has left us damned for his recklessness, as his foolish and stupid death only just after taking the throne excited the worst virtues of everyone! I am not Julian, but it is just as well. We see how much ‘erudition’ he employed in his choice of friends, as we see how quickly they fall into the vainest of plots at his passing away! The iron-fist, which Julian bemoaned to employ, I will wield with determination to govern, as the one right and legal emperor of Rome. By my care, the weeds of his naivety will be torn up, and a new order will be planted subservient of law, and answerable to my imperial power.



    As many are the shrill and shrieking voices of the accusators, so many are the diseases upon which shrewd men of the better sort have attempted to lay the blame for Rome’s waning imperial might. I care for obsequies to God and the refinement of custom just as any other gentleman. May they redound to our continued strength. But proper frontier defenses, good military discipline, fresh recruits, convincing victories over neighboring nations – these things all wait not for ritual but on the power of money; and Rome’s once infinite command over material wealth has faded and turned to brass.



    No thanks to our brilliant and most eminent magistrates, who out of step with the custom of honest business will only humor us with the possession of our provinces if they may pocket all the revenue for themselves. Still they have the gall to spout words of worship and patriotism, as if the Roman Empire was born and raised upon fat old men stealing from true soldiers! Nay, I fear that is a fitting means of her death…and now the indolence comes to its maddest point! For this graft proceeds against the backdrop of the most terrible news – panicked reports of these new barbarian marauders the Huns.



    And so as intolerable and odious as they are in war, just as inveterately and pathetically do the German kings and princes fling themselves against the far river shore, beating their cursed and priceless heads with mud and tears, howling, as if they think the esteem of Rome cares for them! Rome, who unflinching in her devotion to friendship, bears a thousand times the indignity of German betrayal with only gritted teeth! Let them see that the memory of Rome is long indeed. I, Valentinian Augustus, will never admit one soul of the Vandals, nor any man of German arms no matter his blood, beyond these Rhine and Danube banks except in the throes of death!



    Nay, I will go there myself – into the forests and bogs of Germania – to humble the overly proud ambitions of these would-be kings, to restore the esteem of Roman arms, and to restore the natural order of our world, saying in one clear and unmistakable voice, to all mankind, that this land is Roman, that land, miserable and cursed as it is, for Germany!

  3. #3
    isa0005's Avatar Campidoctor
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    Default Re: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    I love your prose! You really do instil a sense of the 'epic' about your writing. So much so that for a moment I thought I was reading a work of epic poetry by Virgil or perhaps a history by Suetonius. Very well done, can't wait to read more!

  4. #4

    Default Re: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    Thanks isa! Very glad that you're a fan! I want to romanticize the story a little bit while keeping a somewhat player-driven narrative style, and this is the result. By the way, the mores of classical antiquity are flooding my head as I write this...in particular, I keep thinking of Ammianus Marcellinus and his late Roman history...

    -----

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    Chapter II: The Sinews of War

    You should know that I am not a friendly man, as much as the chanted praises of that wonderful virtue “sweetness” may spout from the assiduous lips of courtly flatterers. When such rude asperity has bared itself in the cloak of men’s smiles, how alas will any prudent prince bear to go without the armor of his dignity? Verily mine is a hand which is the better at work than lying in wait, so alas to timid old Senator windbags, I care nothing for the drunken parlor dance they wish we men would do, I will have things in my realm done by imperium! The conventions of state are simply expedient, and as well-founded as they can be! The empire is mine, and in the custom of all good emperors, not excepting the august Septimius Severus acting in the imitation of the earliest princes in convention established by the Deified Augustus, I keep a keen ear at the counsel of our excellent Senate, but I will remind them, to adjudicate the matter, that they cannot exercise any authority whatsoever in provinces given to the empire.

    As ever these beguiling snakes of treacherous heart are like harpies behind stage performers, so brash within their vanity, so inveterate in their squirming jealousy. Under the tablecloth of a soliloquizing rejoinder, that incredible father of the Senate Petronius Probus takes my entry into the topic and proceeds to cuck my authority no less than twenty times. Saying “my obedience to God”, well God put me in charge. You prick. For good measure I have one of his disgraced in-laws name him for demonry. His house is burned and pulled down the day before I leave Rome. Just another example of that old adage: the ruler is the fox, and his people the sheep.



    For too long, that which could and should be the vital heart of our empire – Italy – has passed for exorbitant waste. Spit Gaius Marius, spit your bitter disaster: the country locked at arms between farmers and gentlemen passed into a vacation resort! So many pigs, fruits, nuts, fish, ears of corn – how the buttery Senators eat it all, and swallow the return of our whole heartland down their gullet! And then what is harvested by the backbreaking labor of lifeless peasants abroad comes back to Italia and goes to try and make up the bill for the useless, obese cesspools we have for cities!



    I need men of my own in the Senate – who won’t think of their own paranoid schemes, but work earnestly for the victory of the empire. We’ll see if the tale of this young man’s unfortunate indiscretion will teach the awful creatures to mind their own business. Still, for good measure I have the Augustan morality laws re-publicized in the forum and I order my Urban Prefect to inform the Senate of a new graduating class, over 200 dukes and counts of the imperial orders, suborned into our venerable Senate. Doubtless the old guard will fall about one another having a gossip about this – if they think their pompous glory-hounding will appeal to my good Roman soldiers, they have another thing coming. As my baggage train winds up the Italian seacoast, at last I can put the maddening charade of ‘politics’ behind me. While the soldiers pitch our camp for the night, at the base of the might Alpine mountains, I can finally turn my attentions to imperial business.

    A long-awaited scroll is fetched into my outstretched hand. Though my lieutenants long-since buried their noses in their silken pillows, I lie awake after hours reading it by candlelight. I see that it has been labeled “On the Chief Evils of the Empire”. Per my request, a task force inside the Magistrate of Offices compiled the report, after an exhaustive search of the records of all seven prefectures. For too long we emperors have tried to govern in the dark, ignorant of the important details we can only glean from on the spot. I am sick of the mewling and the ruinous waste that comes from such imprecision. Now I will make myself an expert on all four corners of my domain, and give the empire a solution crafted to each of its peculiar ills.



    Above all else, the simmering unrest flaring up across the whole empire must be silenced. If our provinces cannot be trusted to remain loyal, we won’t be able to make any use of our imperial troops. They currently sit paralyzed – whole legions tied up in garrison duty, leaving our forces isolated and far away from the Rhine and Danube frontiers. It would be one thing if the policy actually worked, but these settlements are on the verge of revolt! Is there anything that can put an end to so great an evil as treason, and end one of the greatest threats to imperial power the Roman world has to offer? What is so badly eating at our mighty realm?



    As I unfurl the bulky scroll, I find my clerks emphasizing 3 primary causes of unrest in our imperial provinces. The biggest of the three? It turns out to be the sheer size of our great Roman empire, which now stretches so far that a governor in remote reaches of it may pass his whole term in office without ever hearing a word from his imperial superiors. Left to their own devices like this, my imperial magistrates sadly sink into lazy and corrupt methods of doing their job. And the soldiers under their command, lacking the companionship of their emperor, soon fraternize among their boisterous own ranks and think to spice up their miserable lives by putting their own sergeant on the throne.



    So the soldiers of far-flung Britain and the ilk care little for me, Valentinian Augustus, but alas, the people of our empire like me little better. Roman civilization has seen better days. Not since the reign of Trajan has an emperor added the conquest of even one other nation to Roman honor, not one material gain, even though our “best” class plays at a miserable and profitless form of hand-to-mouth gluttony. Instead, savage rulers in the mold since Septimius wring the empire dry of its labor year after ruinous year, for nothing more than the haphazard and bloody preservation of our collective Roman corpse. Now all the accounts are empty, every man pays his bills on credit, and at the last the municipal services collapse and the bloated cities of Rome are left without baths, sewers, streets, games, or grain subsidies.



    And in this ravaged state of affairs, man begins to change. Maybe he does not have the courage to let go of the old, but if he means to survive, he cannot fail to make an accommodation for what is the new reality. And so after more than a hundred years of bitter war, the people of the empire turn in droves to the promises of religion, and they put their faith in temples and priests to care for them, since having exhausted the checkbook of our wealthy, they proceed at last to the men who will do it for free. But rather than being a salve to the nation, our confession of spirituality figures as the third and most insidious evil menacing the good order of the Roman empire.

    It’s very late in the evening. My candle melts down beneath the final hour. I put the report of my secretary aside and lay to rest, but not before catching a glimpse in the bottom reaches of my book-box, a title which I have been keen to read of late in my leisure time. De Bello Gallico, while tempting to vain and reckless souls, it instigates within me a profound intellectual interest. What a sober and orderly age he makes it seem, that Caesar whose sharp prose always defied the suspicion of an evil heart. My reading has convinced me: the essence of Roman glory, then now and forever, is and was victory in war. Victory – the loot of plunder, the respect of triumph, the agreement of arms, the hope of business – these are the things which fed the wheels of the Roman empire, which will revive the vitality of the Roman empire once again! And victory, as Caesar demonstrated time and again, follows from a present and decisive leadership, good understanding of the terrain, good understanding of one’s own soldiers, and good sense in both risks and rewards.

    Though I have dared not to divulge my scheme, not even to trusty companions of my bodyguard and posse, with each passing day the notion matures in my head. As Caesar birthed an empire through a great conquest of Gaul, so I, Valentinian, will reverse the fortunes of Rome through one great military achievement: the conquest of all Germania beneath my arms. Then at last religion, politics, and business will run happily to the ample rewards and good credit of myself, rather than through suspicious and melancholy channels of selfish and thoughtless paranoia.



    It’s only a week before I’m across the Alps and into Gaul. On my way north to the Rhine, I make a point of passing through our eminent city of Arles. The city council, in their finery, spouting the honied words of trained orators – they do not even know what a gesture I am about to show to this seaside resort. I take the opportunity to declares Arles “headquarters” of the imperial relay service, and order all reports from across the empire to be referred there. Rather than going through Rome, or trying to find and catch me myself, information from the frontiers as well as the heartland can easily flow into Arles. If anything is urgent enough to require my personal review, it can be brought up north to my encampment in less than week.





    I’m only in Arles for a few days, but the word is good: my governors and generals fall over one another from the pages of their letters, vying to commend my decision and get their foot in the door in the new imperial capital. I’m closer to them too, and they know how stealthily I may have one of their slaves or courtiers brought behind closed doors to tell their wild and hoary stories. It’s exactly the effect I hoped for: playing damage control, my imperial generals won’t dare to step out of line. I take the opportunity to divert a cohort of legionaries from one Duke Herius Flavius, and I deploy them to combat at the frontlines instead of police work in far away Spain.



    Politics is bartering by a different name, and since I hope to take valuable soldiers away from my ambitious generals, I prudently decide to soften the blow somewhat and trim off a good chunk of their tax obligation for the coming year. It won’t put a crown on their head, but certainly it will keep them fat for the winter. They proceed to steal almost anything that isn’t bolted down, but I’m happy: there’s no hint of rebellion from Spain and I can get the spare troops I’ll need to attempt my invasion across the Rhine.



    It’s not an ideal move. I have to worry about these Berber tribes causing trouble across the straits in Mauretania. If they attack, there won’t be any reinforcements available in Spain – but of course, that’s the gist of things almost everywhere in our empire right now. I’m also worried that these guys might try and attack Africa, can I rely on my defenses alone?



    I’m on the road north to Aug. Trevorum, and by sad irony, my thoughts turn back to Italy. The arena of quarrelsome old men and womanly blood feuds, I think my good and alert governance matters little to them. As ever, there’s not much helping these addiction flesh-bags except to bail them out of their lavisciousness. It’s a little belated, but on further reflection in the cool Gallic air, I scribble off a missive to my Praetorian Prefect of Italy and generously issue a series of imperial subsidies on flour and corn for all of Italy for the next 10 years. Let the Senators buy the next one. This will hurt my wallet, but the revival of urban life in Rome and greater Italy at my flamboyant dime may hopefully repay me more than just their smiling happy faces.



    It’s not just Italy that’s overgrown either. Coming up from Arles, I get a report from the city council of New Carthage decrying the famine of their citizens, even though all but the oldest women and babes have drained their pockets. I’ll cover this one too, but a more permanent solution to the squalor problem in our imperial cities is badly needed.





    Take a look at Avaricum. Very illustrative. Originally at 5% public order, moving my capital and adjusting the tax rate leaped the PO to 65%!! But now I’m screwed, since the settlement will still rebel unless I can find some spare troops somewhere to push it over the edge.



    Not sure what I’m gonna do about this, for example. Holy hell, 0%!? Impossibly low, and from one of our military breadbaskets as well! Nor can I just let it rebel, since this populous settlement pays as much as perhaps 15% of my whole army upkeep. I guess I’ll wait a turn and see what my options are, even though it wastes precious time.



    I admit to having a softness for letters, for who is not amazed by the wonderful power of the imagination? Still, when I leave that tent that go among the soldiers, I’m all about business and getting the job done. It’s great to see my Rhine legionaries, even if our meeting is overshadowed by the past years’ clouds of war. Their numbers may have dwindled from greater days, but our comitatenses remain peerless on the battlefield, amply provided with arms and armor of a very high quality. While I’m there, I take the opportunity to meet my Duke, Marcus Flavius.



    For the sake of caution, I discard a number of his courtiers I’m uncomfortable with. My own picked men will be better attaches anyway. By my orders, he accompanies me to Aug. Trevorum and into the company of my commander-in-chief, Caius Flaius.



    A true Roman, by the account of more than just his handsome name. Caius has done excellently defending the Roman world, in my brief stint of absence. Doubtless, he and I will make a famous team, master and servant, eviscerating the barbarian hordes with the science of Roman discipline.



    I can’t say the same for Nero Flavius, his honorless underling. The wretch is little better than a barbarian himself, stealing from the hapless population to pay himself at the expense of our safe borders. So soon as Caius slips the news to me, I organize a trial and have this Nero Flavius consigned to life imprisonment. By my order most of the officers of the Rhine frontier are purged, and a more reliable corps of soldiers is ushered into their positions. You can check Germania off the list…



    What about our other borderland along the Danube? One which includes my own homeland, Pannonia, and the house I inherited from my father. I’ll tell you this: they’re never as loyal when you’re not there in person. Even after all my efforts to boost public order, both cities of Pannonia remain on the verge of a revolt. It’s a weak garrison too, slightly lesser than my Rhineland armies, and unless I can solve the unrest there, the troops are totally trapped and useless for actually warding off invaders.

    I’m camped at last on the shore of the Rhine, my troops are flooding in from all over the province to amass here and prepare for a mighty expedition into Germania, what could be better? Not business sadly, which is all I have to look forward to it seems as I am again inundated by a swarm of letters. Two of these in particular stand out, as being indicative of the challenge facing the whole empire. The first, a petition from the humble citizens of our African colony Lepcis Magna.



    Like many Africans these days, the simple folk of Lepcis turn in huge numbers to the word of Christ as the salve on their material suffering. But the provincial governor frustrates their hopes, interceding to preserve the forgotten old temple to the pagan gods there, and denying the petition to build a worthy church. How will I not satisfy their needs, a mighty and devout adherent of God myself, and one who verily reigns at the continued sanction of His divine instruction!?



    We can just barely afford it, but with the little discretionary funds in the exchequer, we offer a donation which will serve to build this Church of Lepcis and give the peasants there a proper spiritual salvation.



    And what of the second petition? An outcry from some of the well-to-do citizens of my own home province, lamenting that the account reserved for the maintenance of the city temple has run into arrears. May be that the one God is king, but if I shall remain king here on earth, I would do well to let Roman law reign down here, and leave God’s law for the afterlife. I am not a pagan, but I am a Roman, and so I will let the Pannonians build their pagan temple, since that is what they prefer.



    Alas, I am luckily that it is so clear-cut in this case. Outside the channels of imperial appeal, religious unrest continues to fracture our imperial cities, instigating riots and pushing everyone to the lowest form of religious observation. I actually prefer these extreme instances, since they’re easy to fix. In cities like New Carthage, the issue is hopeless – whether it be Christian or Pagan, the government runs headlong into the sedition of its population regardless.

    When I have conquered Germania, the solution to this problem, like all the others, will come in the form of good credit to my name – then at last I will have the wealth and clout to propound one view or the other, resting upon the esteem of my achievements and the reputation of my power. Until then, I am overwhelmed in the matter of religion. There is little I can do. I will focus my energies on conquest instead. Though I thirst for troops and supplies, there is no other way but forward. Daunting though the scale of our challenge may be, I take solace in the knowledge that each step on the way shall increase our strength, and serve to dispel our current weakness. At last, I am ready to conquer.
    Last edited by Beckitz; August 02, 2018 at 04:29 PM.

  5. #5
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Default Re: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    I'm enjoying your narrator's distinctive style and the way that he introduces us to the serious problems facing Western Rome. I like your idea of the emperor receiving petitions from settlements and deciding which ones he'll focus his limited funds on. I hope that the purge of the officers on the Rhine frontier will have the intended result and that the planned expedition will succeed. I wonder if there will be sufficient time to complete the expedition before the storm from the east arrives.

  6. #6

    Default Re: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    I'm really wondering where those hordes are going to pop up lol. Sometimes they don't make it very far...but one way or another, they'll face the mettling of Roman arms, no doubt. Thank you for the comment!

    ---


    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

    Chapter III: The Virtues of a King


    I should count myself as lucky. The empire is in a sorry state, but the life of the emperor has seldom been better. For nearly two centuries, it has been the lot of the ruler to suffer a conflicted existence amidst jealous rivals, and rarely to enjoy more than a brief spate of years in security. The state of things was improved in Diocletian’s time, but only Constantine could equal the achievement, and even he at the price of three bloody civil wars. No sooner did he pass away then his three sons fell into fighting – Constantius, he of the royal line’s original namesake at length seized the purple, only to be assailed twice more by usurpers, the last of which only just averted by his timely death. I too could have been easy prey, a mere soldier as I am and no blood of Constantius, pushed by fate from the warrior’s caste into the seat of empire. But in these dark times, men respect the urgency of the sword and they bow to its necessity. I hold the hilt of Roman honor, and good Romans heed my instruction against the approaching storm on the horizon.



    The empire will hold. Men become seditious when they are left idle, not least of all the brutes we have for Roman soldiers. I won’t let our legionaries sit in place – everyone is to be placed on full alert, in every corner of my domain, be they near or far, they will prepare for their role in our coming conquest of Germania. I’ll take every spare troop that I can – as ever, some stretches of the frontier will be left exposed to the barbarians, but there’s nothing we can do. With the state of our economy and the true state of our military-industrial complex, there’s no way forward except to conquer. For that, I’ll gather all my forces in one place and gamble on cutting a swathe though these German lands with my multiple armies. If we get invaded in the meantime, we’ll have to react to that after we’ve secured the reinforcements from victory and looting income.



    Our heartland is truly weak and vulnerable. But that is why we brave Roman soldiers give our lives and everything we have on the front-lines, to defend it.

    In every one of countless outposts, camps, and forts of the imperial army, the soldiers fly into their labor, preparing to ship out to Germany, preparing to gather victuals and crops for the campaign, making their fortifications spotless, readying themselves for any order. The east was abandoned long ago – there’s nobody who’s not fighting for a house, a woman, or a loved one out here on the river’s edge. Still, the authority of Roman morals has so declined. A delay appears, as suddenly there’s a letter from the provincial commander of Central Gaul, reporting the instance of a mutiny at Avaricum. Public order is too low, and a full chunk of the imperial Roman army sits immobilized in their garrison. Now, at a crucial time in his reign, the emperor needs to intervene.



    The man he turns to? One Cnaeus Flavius, count of the diocese of Burdigala. A provincial, Cnaeus is – like the emperor Valentinian – a pure-bred military man, and one known for straitening things out by the book. Note the torturer ancillary, which provides a huge bonus to law. Receiving a rescript from the emperor, he goes at once in haste with his bodyguard.





    Though he stops just short of the settlement, it should only riot for 1 turn until he can make it there. With his bonuses, he’ll improve public order by at least 10% - which is more than the 5% currently needed to hit the magic number of 70%.



    At the same time, troops previously tied-up in Spain are marching by orders towards the Rhine. On their route, the commander receives an order directly from Count Cnaeus. They are to divert off of their path and stop through Burdigala, which is now left almost undefended. On their way through, they’ll leave behind a sufficient number of troops to keep the peace, and send the remainder on to the front lines.



    Similar domestic tranquility measures are needed in Germania province as well, ironically, just beneath the nose of the emperor himself. The land has been laid waste by the previous decades of warfare. Desiring that desolate streaks should not in turn become avenues and hiding places for barbarian invaders, Valentinian relocates several dozen peasant villages by direct order and systematically repopulates much of the upper Rhine.



    The colonizing effort leads to a tax windfall too, as the number of eligible heads in Germania Superior vastly exceeds previous levels.



    The situation on the Rhine is at a lull right now; since Julian repulsed the last outrage of the Franks, a somewhat unusual peace has returned to the country. These German princes are playing nice, but if they get a whiff of trouble, they’ll round up a huge horde of their ilk overnight and lay waste to everything on our side of the river. If they want to play a cat-and-mouse game with us, I say let them try. All great works begin from a first step, and if the Alemanni don’t want to defend their encampment, then we’ll take it, and turn it into a fortified gateway for Roman conquest.



    They think it’s so ing funny now, because they’ve bred more of the vermin, they like to sit around in their fields until the last possible moment and then jump up all at once, with their horrible racket. See Hortar here, who obliviously sits in the Bavarian bogs more than one-turn's movement points away from his lands and kin. I’ll make them pay indeed for trying to have it that way. Like the vengeance of God Himself, I will rip across the Rhine like a pearl of thunder and waste their proud Rhineland camp like a holy flame, with no time for their lackeys to react.



    Meantime I’m hoping to make nice with the Franks, cautiously amicable as we are, but I fear that a bold surge across the Rhine in force will be far too much for the Frankish chiefs to stomach.



    The good Duke Marcus Flavius will make preparations for the Roman army to cross into Germania. Let him gather boats and all the engines of war. To his legion, we’ll also join most of the available forces from the Rhine legions, including the soldiers of our imperial border watch, the limitanei. Although more like sentries than professional soldiers, these lower-quality troops will give us the numbers we need to match up against the barbarian foe tactically on the battlefield.





    These guys really are garbage, but in a grand-battle scenario, I'd rather have them than have nothing at all.

    The great army comes together, the legions of all Germania and Noricum, amassed on the banks of the river in an ungodly horde. Spirits run high, good for our cause, but also fanning the flames of disaster. The legions quarrel impudently with one another, vying for their turf within the campsite, chafing at the injury of having to share the rewards of their glory. On the fifth day of the congress, the Herculeans come up with the scheme of seeking my personal favor. Assembled outside my tent, they beg me in full array to delay no more, but lead them across as the suicidal vanguard of our invasion. The Jovians see the spectacle, they get enraged, they try to pull down the Herculean banner and soon it causes an open brawl – my Palatine guards rush into the mob, beating them indiscriminately until they break apart howling. In a segregated camp that night, vile slurs and hateful sneering boasts fly overhead of the tents. I sit in my council, infuriated at the loss of my sleep. I command my senior Quaestor, Gratian, to assemble the whole army in mass formation tomorrow at sunrise, and immediately to begin retraining this great Roman army to function as a single fighting force.



    I speak to the soldiers under the watchful eyes of my Palatine Guard. In a bold and resolute voice, I remind them of their unchanging lot as soldiers – to obey, to fight, to win wars. This war is no different, I tell them, for one step at a time, we shall go to their lands, find them, defeat them, and seize their country! Not shields or coins or banners will decide their identity, but achievement! The achievement of victory over Germany is their purpose in life! For how else will they be kings, except by finding the countries of kings and princes, and taking them in hand?

    In my afternoons, a million letters flood my couch, straining themselves to be read before my imminent departure into the German forests. More than greed, more than ambition, this is what has spelled the downfall of many a Roman ruler. Away in the German lands, I will have little to trust in my subordinates save blind faith in their character. Nor am I a long-reigning prince, known and loved by the whole empire, but in fact I, a humble soldier, am in the very firsts of imperial rule, too green to be of good credit in politics. I have few of the spies I would like to have, and I won’t have the opportunity, not until I’ve won some battles.

    There’s cause for hope nonetheless. At last after over three years we have word from Britain again – we are happy to hear that all is perfectly well, in fact Britain is one of the sleepiest reaches of the empire, and one where we may be able to make some progress.



    Our forces on the island are in good strength, fortified last by Julian’s measures. Our strength has warded off the aggression of those Picts, dwelling across the wall. Now, things being as they are, it may be the right time to stage an attack of our own. If we could secure the submission of the hostile Picts, it might even give us the opportunity to redeploy forces from Britain. I send the word to Placus Flavius, my Duke of Britain.



    He goes at once and leads the army north, far from Londinium and into the treacherous parts of the isles. With my sanction, he proceeds to gather supplies and victuals from dozens of miles around, stripping the province bare to outfit a force little more than one legion in size. Though they may be a smaller-sized force, using Roman military science, they could get the better of the savage Celts skulking up to our north.





    The scent of wine, the flush of drinking, the repose of being drunk. Evening time, just before the dawn of our final week in training, I summon a council of the military leadership and divulge the plan to them in complete fashion. Germania, which reaches from the Rhine river in the West, to the distant River Viadrus in the East, we Romans shall seize from two sides.



    Our main army will strike directly across the Rhine, and establish a fortified presence on the far side to serve as the staging post for our campaign inland. And we will be seeking to rendezvous with our second supporting army, which shall strike across the Danube from Pannonia, and encircle Germany from the East. Our two armies eventually to meet in the middle, just south of the River Albis.

    ---






    (PS: Including these screens separately. Since Valentinian starts the game in Rome, I actually moved his unit and the garrison from Rome to Pannonia, being closer to his position. This makes one stack on the Rhine, and one stack in Pannonia with Valentinian in it).
    Last edited by Beckitz; August 02, 2018 at 04:28 PM.

  7. #7

    Default Re: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Chapter IV – Sound the Advance!

    My days are full and exhausting, yet the time appears to fly by. If great rulers are often rated for their works, people will have to admit, I knew what I was doing. Of course, every emperor likes to believe they’re the reincarnated shade of Alexander, and hustle around on horseback putting huge earthly matters to rest with one sharp roll of the eyes. I can tell you in confidence, the emperors do wish to be privy to what’s really going on, even if they may refer things into the hands of executors, its all they can do in the interest of expediency, when the boundaries of one’s responsibility and one’s terrestrial empire embrace the expanse of the known world. Still, much though I may respect the proverbial wisdom of my councilors, as they ply me with fattening morsels of praise and material assurance, though I know that I am a humble soldier by pedigree and no royal prince, still my warrior’s heart chafes at the sewing club protocol of imperium ex comitatu, believing, if only through the despair of frustration, that there must exist some better way to rule.

    I see how the great Caesar enjoyed an almost infinite empire in his office, resting his signal authority upon a tireless presentness in rule. I too must some means be everywhere, though I be but one man, that I may see everything through to completion by the deliberate seal of my understanding. So to give more of myself to government, I discard that which burdens me with frivolous cares – dining, drinking, hunting, laying on the couch, I gladly give these things away and give myself to rule instead. My sleep I conserve in frugal amounts, just a short repast in the twilight between dusk and the morning, which will keep the unfortunate vessel of my mortal body alive. It is almost thoughtless the way I fling myself into the business of command, racing back and forth north, south, east and west on horseback, seeing fords, woods, hills, springs, villages, forts and mountains all with my own eyes in the spans before breakfast time. Then a short draught of the skin, a morsel or two from the jar, and it’s time for drill – I always drill with my men, doubly so now that I have gambled to reforge a new Grand Army of the empire, as they stand in their endless rows my royal self stands among them, belting my grandfather’s war-cry as we execute the check, parry, slash of combat underneath the rays of the relentless sun.

    How long has it been? One, two turns of the clock? How quickly does summer the time of achievements dawn, marking the approach of a mere one year since my reception in the eternal city of Rome. What countless reaches of country have been surveyed, what immense bundles of corn and flour have been uprooted from the soil for war, what vast numbers of men and boys summoned from the fields have been harvested like seeds and threaded down in the furrows of a new, eternal empire. And I, Valentinian Augustus, like the hawk of my homeland’s legend song hath I been hard at work, quarrying my soft fleshly enemies through the country of rumor, gossip, and blackmail, the talons of my vituperators felling the legs of so many renowned Roman houses, the piercing cry of my justice evoking fear in vermin and grass-eaters. So many noble-born Senators have I brought to ruin, the hoard of their golden trinkets fills my storehouse like a funeral pyre.

    And still every day they are hard at work, my merciless defenders of the poor, my vindicators, the agents of my special directorate who excoriate the demesne of our Roman provinces, destroying impropriety, reversing injustice, restoring the rule of law. Like the foam of a tempest they privileged gentlemen of improper character bloat up under the force of pressure and cascade into ruin; the ship of state keeps her course all the while. From the ranks of my loyal soldiers, according to their merits and their patriotism both, I elevate the cream from warrior’s caste into the college of the gentlemen, fertilizing the soil of our great domain, reshaping her, not to look like Augustus or Trajan, but indeed according to the immaculate model of our own Republic herself.

    The phrase hangs breathless over camp, churning a hot waxy pit of fear in our soldiers’ guts: one week. One week remains until, at springtime’s first thaw, the defenders of Roman might will surge across the Rhine and repulse the stench of German barbarians from our neighbor shore. The report is a carefully-crafted deception – it’s actually three days, when, at my prepared signal, my generals and I will attack by surprise, and descend to give slaughter to the Alemanni King Suomar, and his host of arrogant fools who are pitching their seats in sight of our pristine Roman lawn. No little clump of fear plagues me as well, entombed though the feeling may be beneath the aegis of my royal visage, a vexing angst labors my breaths regardless. I cannot find solace from my worries, even as my tired form falls against the elegant curves of my imperial bed, and as the pain in my back drifts away my fitful mind soon begins to wander, swirling out the four walls of my head, taking flight into the star-speckled northern sky.



    ---










    “Fathers, noblemen, exemplars…I fear only that the wizened ears of our eminent doctors and patricians of the Senate may catch doubt at the sweetness of my praises. I fear it only, patres conscripti, for verily I myself hesitate nothing to sing them, both seemly and utterly true as they are. But since the beginning of a speech and the recollection of important facts lie at one and the same time, may I be able to put my fears to rest and confirm the good estate of our Roman senators by a single measure…”

    - “Hmpf…I recognize that intolerable smugness of voice…isn’t that Leontius Paulus? The Senate’s very own Greek circus monkey? He gaffs, he squeals, he talks in circles…and for half the price of a real one! How I long to ensnare him in the sin of perfidy…ah, or should that be ‘longed to’?”

    “Indeed, the accusation of treason heaped upon us is better reserved to the underlifes who go about flinging it. For we nobles to a fault have we kept the fastidious observation of right, custom and law, as it was and always practiced, but even as the world knows us for doctors and professors of the very minutiae in government, men bereft of even a simple education dare to allege that we are barbarians. Not they, who invent clauses and pretexts for loopholes, until like a torrent the horror of anarchy and rapine flows from their incautious tongues and out into our once-peaceful world as untold disaster!?



    It is not right for a savage and a barbarian to hold the reins of power, which yolk proceeds to slip at once from the grasp of proper authority and into destruction and slaughter by due course. And that which is not of right, by right must means be reversed under the seal of judgement. We Senators cannot at one and the same time fulfill our necessary duties and continue to recognize that Valentinian as Roman Emperor. As I think, we must see at once and directly to the election of his replacement, this measure to be confirmed by the legal authority of the legitimate Augustus, as he reigns in Constantinople,…”

    He trails off. Applause and the hooting commonplace to haggard old birds drowns him out. By God, if I still drew breath this man would be flayed alive for his impudence. Now before my corpse is even laid to rest he sets his scheme in motion, thinking to doom the whole Roman world by setting its two royal brothers upon one another. No sooner shall his procession of thieves and liars make for the Thracian swamps than the marrow of our Roman strength will trickle after, the dumb beasts we have for soldiers following the whip of their material masters to the utmost havoc and ruin. How many usurpers will this “constitutional appeal” unleash, when as many kings and warlords of the most savage race known to man fiend every day for the spoils of our Roman empire?

    I can’t look anymore. I am disgusted. Woe is me, I must make haste back to Germania! Yes I must be with my soldiers, my champions – somehow I must get through to them! There are so many old wives’ tales about ghosts and shades speaking out to the living beneath the darkness of night. I will find the way to make my voice heard – I will speak to my generals again, and we shall complete the plan which is still ripe for execution, the conquest which will redeem the destiny of Rome!

    ---

    He went by the name of Caius, and that was exactly how he expected the soldiers to know him as, when he walked through camp from place to place as he did, the cloak of Germania’s gloomy forests hugged tight around the arch of his upright shoulders and his nose turned ever slightly down upon the labors of military life. Rumors festered that this was no birth name of his, but in fact his parents had been lowborn villagers of Belgium, who made a livelihood selling cheap trinkets to the camp-followers of Julian Augustus, propelled, in one final rush of avarice, to peddle their own son away as a ward of the Roman Empire. As he preferred to say, he was a descendant in a long line of Roman allies, a lineage which stretched back to the time of the Deified Julius Caesar, when Rome first imported the arts of civilization to Gaul. None would challenge it, and his career took flight with the vigor fitting of a young man, his exceptional athleticism, his remarkable bravery, and his tireless demeanor propelling him first into the rank of tribune, and soon from the Palatine Guard into the elite office of Count of Gaul. Now he enjoyed an incredible prestige, escorted by the full bodyguard and retinue of a magister militum, in the capacity Valentinian assigned him as supreme commander of the Roman armies on the Rhine.

    Heads turned everywhere he went, tired, ponderous glances from the rank-and-file which were never returned nor perceived by the eyes. But much though their haunted stares lingered from behind campfire smoke and beady morsels of food, none could follow him beyond the cordon of mail-loaded guards stood firmly in a muscular cordon, which separated the filthy outer reaches of the encampment from the comparatively spacious and presentable officer’s quarters. Stalking past a silent Palatine, Caius over the hunch of his shoulder mused his sentiments to his ever-present servant. “Dismiss the company for suppertime. I’ll dine with the Emperor and come to bed for nightfall.” Sighing the days exertions from his damp and tired face, he pulled both his gauntlets off by the finger and flung them into the ready arms of his follower.

    “Ah, master!” With his arms cradling the steel fists of his earthly lord the aging slave pleaded by the soft hue of his eyes for the patient ear which drew close. “Marcus the Count of Armorica asked that you should visit him on the morrow – to complete your earlier business!” he hastened to add, shrinking away delicately from the demanding expression which fell across his lord’s smudged face.

    “Tis quite well. Be off to your duties, Charettio, do use your caution,” the farewell became lost in the sounds of military life, its airy pronouncer striding away for the magnificent velvet dome which marked the sleeping quarters of the Roman Emperor. It glowed in a fine magenta burn, lit up by bronze and golden tassels, which was quite softly evoked by the dwindling light of the sunset. Burly warriors of the Palatinate made an excellent show of their professional disinterest, having only virtuous stares into the ether on account of the magister militum picking his nose as he sauntered with tired legs upon the threshold of the emperor’s tent.

    Shing! The screech of a blade being drawn filled the emperor’s tent like an orchestra, so many were the deadly edges which Caius saw unfurled against him and thrust upon his joints and throat. But they were already lowered, pulled away beneath the trembling touch of fear, even before the words issued curtly from a meek and exhausted voice. “Fie, leave him. It is the master of soldiers…”

    A most difficult lump rolled down Caius’ throat. Through the peacocked plumes of the guardsmen Caius’ eyes found their way to a familiar face. Adorned in the Senatorial toga and clasped in the amulets of imperial power, Valentinian’s son (!) and quaestor Gratianus sulked in his corner of the tent with his seat resting on the vacant dining table. A mere youth, the whelp was almost the literal shadow of his royal father, saying and doing nothing but following the warrior-prince from place to place in dead silence. Although signally unimpressive, it caused no particular envy either, which made it possible for the young man to rest beside his father constantly while piquing little interest from the soldiers. Even to start upon the boy now was a small labor for Caius, who had half fancied himself to think that the lad was mute. “Afraid, Augustus?” he tried as he gave the youth what he hoped would be a familiar-seeming nod of the face.

    “Verily, I fear on account of death…” As it was revealed now the voice of Gratian was a tad indulgent by pungent with a grown man’s wits. The boy stood to his feet. “My royal father is deceased…”

    The master of soldiers began to appreciate why he was so rudely met by a dozen blades. Important events result from trivial causes, wasn’t that what the Emperor had taken to saying only recently? Now it was he who cast paranoid glances outside the threshold, feeling an urgent need for a wooden door. “Who knows?” he asked, stepping further inside.

    “It was discovered by a servant…” Gratian eyed the magister militum with an expectant face – or was it a face of sorrow? Verily like his father the boy had a long and savory face by birth, which seemed to pass a form of judgement upon everything but betrayed nothing to the outside. “You’re the first. Come,” he beckoned to the anxious general, “I’ll show you – he lies still in his bedchamber.”

    The sight was deeply unsetting. A fierce, relentless man, almost never seen without the flush of exercise – now he lay shrunken and blanched, his limbs appearing feeble without the essence of life. Though there was a glaze of pain on his features no sign of blood or injury was to be found. “You fear poison then?” said Caius to the boy-emperor as they completed their search.

    He chuckled within his throat, though he held a sarcasm in his eyes. “Poison and what else? I fear the anarchy of the empire…”

    Just as Caius was thinking of his next moves a clamor erupted in the antechamber. Both men hurried to see Marcus Flavius the Count of Armorica thrusted down onto his knees, his arms contorted in the grasp of the bodyguards with a dozen swords pressed at his side. The man hissed in pain, battling desperately to free his body. “Stop! Unhand me!”

    “Soldiers! Stand him up!” spat Gratian by the point of his finger, who watched the general forced to his feet with dark eyes. By the palm of their hand they kept his head bent to the grass.

    At his side, Caius stiffened and ached for the liberty to act. “Augustus, this man is loyal to you,” he forced himself to bark, though his feet were rooted to the ground. Heaving for breath he watched the young prince approach curiously to the unfortunate intruder. “All day he was with me, and nowhere near the emperor’s quarters!”

    “Yes I know nothing!” Marcus rejoined, with considerable enthusiasm. Not too belatedly did Gratian turn away and snap to the guards, “it’s fine, release him.”

    Marcus thudded down onto his knees, massaging at the soreness which plagued his arms. Beads of sweat dropped down his cheeks and he labored for breath, looking thoroughly had as he stumbled onto his feet. “That’s close enough, Count,” Gratian warned the man, whose look of squealing pain said it all.

    “Is there some ing trouble?” finally gasped Marcus, as slowly he tuned into their rather unusual surroundings.

    “No…and indeed, we shan’t have any,” put Caius his seal upon the night’s events. He looked back and forth from Gratian’s distant pout to Marcus’ heaving fatigue. “As of this moment, Gratian Augustus is the emperor. I am the chief of his bodyguard, and you are the master of the soldiers,” he nodded to the incredulous Marcus.

    “Wha…ah, no…” cursed Marcus, and for good measure he clenched his teeth together, wildly shaking his head. “You can’t be serious…” but he was silenced by the outstretched hand of Caius, dangling the emblem of the magister militum.

    “Accept fortune, brother,” Caius urged the other man’s reluctant face, and as they took the necklace he spoke to them under his breath, “I will guide us, only remain calm…”

    They broke apart as the tribune of the Palatine cohort stepped carefully before the presence of his new commander. “What do you wish for the body, master?”

    “Do not try and move him now…” Caius trailed off thinking to himself. “Between the watches, transport him in secret to the household storage. On the morrow, verily we’ll either hatch a plan or prepare to deliver the news.”

    “This will not bode well for our conquest, o emperor,” having passed a minute on the news with himself Marcus grimaced in the direction of Gratian Augustus. “The plan could be ruined…”

    Gratian sniffed, and all this elicited but a quiver of his thoughtful lips. “My father would not have approved of anything else. This plan was everything to him, and he believed that it was of supreme importance to the empire.” Turning his head, he gave a lazy shrug. “If we can go ahead, I won’t do otherwise…”

    “I agree,” Caius nodded with little apparent doubt, “this war is paramount to Rome…”

    “Fine,” the newly minted Master of Soldiers seemed little surprised, albeit none the more encouraged. “But there are worse things than failure which come from a bad enterprise,” and leaving behind his troubled scowl Marcus brushed past the Scholate guards and stepped out of the tent.

    No rays of light marked his departure, the sun having well set during their previous antics. The world slipped into the clutches of the night. “Augustus, will you be safe here for the night?”

    “There is probably nowhere safer,” the young man mused.

    “Very well,” Caius assented, with an eye to the emperor’s austere royal guards. “Look for me if I may come by night. We need to dispense with the business of this bad news as soon as can be…”

    Gratian gave a gracious nod. “I understand, Caius, verily let’s proceed as it seems best. Farewell,” and they parted ways.

    ---




    There was no telling how long Caius had laid there on his roll, plots and schemes circling his mind even though he had long since closed the lid over his eyes. Much though he craved and require the respite of sleep, unwanted distractions kept him tethered to the material world. For the umpteenth time, a droplet of water from the afternoon’s rainstorm plopped down from the rafters and plummeted into the basin of the chamberpot sat in the corner of his tent, as it dunked into the vile broth, its horrible splashing noise echoed like a drum of war.

    “Ye gods!” The general hissed furiously and threw his covering aside, determined to finally end the annoyance no matter the cost. He stormed to the basin and snatched it up by the handles, but though he turned his face to the side, the sight which he glimpsed from the mere corner of his eye arrested him and brought him staring straight into the murky brew. There, upon the ripples of the clouded water, was none other than the face he had seen just hours ago – Valentinian! But where the ruler had looked spent and wasted before, the face which stared back at him was as if in the perfect health!

    “Caius!” As if from the deeps of a mighty lake the voice of the emperor sounded faint and far away.

    The general Caius froze, until a horrible whiff of feces gagged him and forced him to hastily plunk the basin down, battling vomit as he rolled aside onto the grass. Still the voice of Valentinian sounded again. “Caius! Answer to your emperor!”

    His stomach churned, and Caius carefully sat back on the heels of his feet, keeping his distance so that nothing was seen of Valentinian except the leer of his eyes. The general watched in horror as the emperor’s speech, clear and perfect, continued to fulminate out of the gassy depths. “It’s me Caius! At last I’ve found you!”

    His lips, his skin, his fingers all trembled with the right-headed suspicion of the dark arts. He sweat like a pig, stumbling over his words. “Yes, I hear you, your majesty!”

    “My death was all too soon, was it not Caius?” nigh-rejoiced the glaring face within the .

    He could say nothing. Though he was untouched a most peculiar force had struck him dumb, burning him beneath the collar.

    “Do you see with what ingenuity Satan, the hateful prince of misery, hath conspired to destroy the first fruits of my rule?” the emperor almost cackled such.

    “Yes lord!” Caius managed to expel.

    “I am not so easily undone…my soul is still full of life, Caius…and now I have you, too – my most excellent companion – to consummate for me that which was too great for the limits of mortality!”

    Caius craned his ear to the basin, half-afflicted by terror, trying to follow this incredible exchange. “My emperor your plan proceeds apace!”

    “Yes…yes!! Oh, you are true Roman soldiers, aren’t you!? I knew I had trusted well in you Caius, you are the companion par excellence!”

    “My emperor…” this was too much now for Caius, who found himself standing, “what happened to you? Can you remember?”

    “I fear I only slipped away, Caius…isn’t that the way of things? What is too great for one vessel passes into another…”

    “My lord,” Caius thoughts left the emperor’s rambling to more immediate business, “your son-“

    “Ah!” Valentinian’s frigid glare seemed quite robotic compared to the warmth in his voice, “how is my Gratian?”

    Caius nodded to himself. “We took care of things my lord. All is under control. He will reign as emperor, I will see to the foundations of his rule. Your companion Marcus rises into the ministry of soldiers-”

    “Heed my words carefully, Caius,” Valentinian spoke in a deliberate voice, the brow of his reflection shimmering atop the pungent brew, “you are my servitor, you understand? The executor of my will, perhaps one would say…”

    “Yes lord, of course my emperor!!” barked Caius down upon the chamberpot.

    “Very good…”

    ---

    Did I say, dear reader, that I was fortunate? I would say so again, untimely though the passing of my mortal life may have been, if needs be to say so I am in some sense better off than I was before. Without the entrapments of a fleshly form, my supervision can see across the whole expanse of the country at once – it is almost, from such a great height, akin to a gentleman’s board game, as my cities and soldiers scurry this way and that like tiny figurines of a young boy’s toy box. Without the limitations of aether, humor, and form, my understanding balloons to a seemingly infinite size – as if slated upon an enormous abacus the torrent of cash, crops, and soldiers exchanged by the wheels of Roman empire runs seamlessly through my mind and I see it all, the flow of everything, as it is and as it will be.

    And yet, sadly, it is not the same scene everywhere. Even as I smile down upon the patriotism of our Roman citizens, my ears catch the dull roar of sedition rumbling from other places. It seems that even my exhaustive efforts were not enough – the news must be reaching Arles even now, as it regard it with my own ghostly eyes: a number of rebellions are known to be germinating across my empire. The pun is quite apt. But what I, Valentinian Augustus, might have fallen prey to in mortal life, can I now easily espy with my own eyes and ears. These mice of treason are not so much for a Lion of God. I will go to Caius at once and direct his handling of these delicate matters…



    Most troubling of all is the revolt that I hear may be brewing in our oh so humble city of Lepcis. Most troubling to me, at any rate, I who dared to show them the personal kindness of raising for them a Christian church! Looking down, I see there was more to this dispute than met my layman’s eye. As it turns out, the controversy is between this one governor and the local bishop, the two of whom are inveterately opposed to one another well beyond the conventions of politics. It would seem a mob of the peasants set fire to the governor’s house – and with the governor incapacitated, law and order in the province has slipped and we risk the whole region spiraling out of our control.


    We can’t do anything about this now, with our resources stretched so thin already. And there’s certainly no troops to spare. In theory we could switch the capital and rebase ourselves closer, in Northern Italy for instance, but keeping this one Libyan village is not worth the risk that we might lose regions of Gaul and Spain as a result. Let’s see if a short switch, from Arles to neighboring Massalia, might do any good.



    Meantime, I turn my eyes northward again to fall upon the situation in our Gallic camps. Though I lost the trappings of my bodily vessel, still the breath feels baited in my chest, as I watch my hand-picked lieutenant Cnaeus and his column of Roman soldiers approach, sentries and all, toward our imperial city of Avaricum.





    He’s in!!!



    At the same time, I see our reinforcements from far-flung Spain, full of vigor although their sweat pounds the dusty trail, one bootcrack at a time they proceed up the long road into Aquitania and toward the legionary camp at Burdigala. There they will shore up the authority of Count Cnaeus, seditious as this settlement is in his absence. Since they torched the governor’s villa here, too, the extra garrison forces will be a very timely addition to this city – and in some day not too far off, I hope they will leave a peaceful and pliant populace to win new lives on the Rhine river.



    Especially disturbing to my ghostly sight is that sight which I see in the hills of my Pannonian homeland. To wit, nothing – for none on the streets of Carnuntum dare to go about their business with anything other than straight faces and the best-kept manners. But like embers of a campfire, the dissent smolders in Carnuntum. Something happened here, but I can not say for sure what. Perhaps this agitation was caused by the meddling of our barbarian foes? They sure enough cross our border at will – could be they’ve sown spies to weaken our strength here on the Danube. I’ll keep a close eye on this, but for now it’s a waiting game.



    My attention is torn away from this Pannonian mystery – smoke clouds far to the south in Illyricum distract my eyes. Peering there curiously, I see what can only be a thousand raging bonfires, spitting putrid and acrid-smelling smoke into the high heavens. I would almost hold my nose, if I could, as I draw in closer. Then my undead heart is stricken with awe: I see that these are corpses, and trinkets of the deceased, mounded up like fertilizer in a secluded grove beyond the city limits of Salona and set to blaze by puffy-swaddled plague doctors. The plague has hit Salona, and our most intransigent city is now the site of a horrible epidemic. The rioting only grows worse, law and order decays and the people turn to anarchy and barbarism because of the multitude of their sufferings.

    Similar banditry has plagued the provinces of the empire for no little time. Since Diocletian, our new taxation scheme has kept the legions functioning, but it chafes at the dignity of a certain kind of proud and enterprising man. Some impudent characters will not bear the burden of living life for Rome, and they run off their census-designated lands to form bandit cartels that make a more dishonest living preying upon the good souls who remain loyal to Rome. My native country of Pannonia is not any kind of exception.



    As I have the good fortune to catch this peregrine plot with my undead eye, I hurry to pass word to my loyal Spurius. By my intervention, his horse is frightened off, delaying the Duke just long enough to let word arrive from the scouts.



    These rebels are hopelessly outmatched. They are not to be underestimated, however, not in the long run, since careless casualties subduing these bad actors could eventually jeopardize our manpower. Since we can’t recruit or retrain any troops right now, any soldier we lose in battle is a permanent loss of strength, for the foreseeable future.

    Spoiler for The Pannonia Uprising


    Watch! Watch my excellent Roman soldiers exterminate these underling whelps! You can see them close in on the bandit camp, just in those nearby woods. Watch, and see the precision of Roman military art!



    I start by forming a squadron. A squadron needs at least one infantry unit. But in a real battle, there could be up to five infantry in a single squad.



    Onto my three infantry, I’ll add two archers to this squadron. The morale effect of their arrows, combined with a head-on charge from my legionaries, might well do the work of proper horsemen! And these guys can easily slip around the back, too…



    I’ll keep my cavalry in a separate squadron to themselves. They don’t go so great with infantry, who are slower.





    Turns out we didn’t need to! These runaway farmers barely have the courage to stand up straight! What is this, a protest?? We’ll teach ‘em…







    In a real battle there’s a lot more to this strategy than it seems like!





    Wow, look at this. Just another example of why the Roman empire is so hard to rule. Can we ever be at the right place at the right time? I half-suspect a German plot…

    ---

    As ever, empire consumes the activity of the land, and takes from the commerce of peasants to feed the enterprise of conquest. Conquest is an investment, the return of which from vanquishing these overripe German lands shall be manifold, if good order and discipline prevail in consummating the hard work of preparation. Still, we are reluctant to let the depredations of war inflict their mark too deeply upon the provinces and people we call subjects of our empire. A small degree of hardship prepares the state for reward – a great amount of hardship will scar it too deeply, such that even great recompense will not suffice to atone for the affliction. I intend imminently to seize the rewards of war, and our first fruits of plunder will erase the growing deficit and form the basis for ambitious warriors and aspiring young men to flock to our ranks, and swell our military might.



    Gazing down upon my magnificent provinces of Gaul, I see the hopes that my bold dream for the future has inspired within the pit of our Roman hearts. Formerly in hiding as students, vacationers, or wards of City-dwelling aunts and uncles, now the noble-born sons of the decurions and the municipal fathers reveal themselves into the light. With proud shoulders the young men stand before the city councils and are celebrated for their courage and manhood, keeping stern and serious faces, for they are about to be adopted into the Roman legions at the rank of primicerius. It is a responsibility perfect for their sophisticated rearing, although there will be no little need to dispel the stigma of laxity either, for all men in my army are expected to drill and to fight, the soft-skinned sons of provincial magistrates not excepted. At last we may reap all the talent of our great empire.





    In the breezy porch of curial meetinghouses and council chambers in hundreds of cities across the country, now new busts of myself, my brother, and my son are unloaded from the merchants’ wagons; with a flick of the wrist the tarp slides off and the unflinching authority of our dynasty regards the metropolises of our patrimony for the first time from behind piercing eyes. Municipal slaves fastidiously dust and scrub the approach of the state temples, wreathing new flowers and garland about the altars; with his soft yet penetrating gaze, the sculptor chisels new epithets of empire into the marble bosses, cheering, in great big letters, the return of Roman empire from East to West, the end of limits either here or there, the unlimited passage of Roman arms in victory.

  8. #8
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Default Re: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    I'm enjoying the observations of Valentinian Augustus (it's good to see him continuing to comment on what's happening, despite what happened to him). It sounds like capable leadership has kept in check the internal threats of banditry, rebellion and plague. I wonder whether what the external threats will be like and how the expedition into Germania will get on.

  9. #9

    Default Re: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Chapter V – No Time to Wait

    Like the ratting ribcage of my putrid corpse, the ebb and flow of life yields way to the cold catch of death. So it is with the seasons of Earth too, and in the skies above German fields and forests, the malevolent tempest of winter sets in to usurp summer’s heat. The land becomes a frigid skein of raw and hellish suffering. Is it time to retreat indoors, stoke the fire, pull on the trousers, and prepare hot food and drink for the frozen months? Not in the least. Per my royal convenience, winter is the time chosen for my grand attack.

    While they lie in their quaint little homes and in their crowded hillfort, stuffed thick with beer and oblivious to the scythe of my looming invasion, the legions of Rome spring as one invincible force into action. But first, as pious, right-headed, and noble-raised citizens of Rome we are, a time for obsequy is in order. I do not flinch in the slightest, as I see my finely dressed and decorated imperial corpse, born upon the golden litter of empire, in its procession through row after row of weeping, howling Roman warriors. How they shake the heavens, how they play at the heartstrings of man as they bitter, bereaved men beat the hardening German soil with their fists and their bloodied foreheads, crying, crying against the indifference of fortune. Yet I am afflicted with the peculiar temptation, perhaps a curious malady I have accumulated in my offices as a prince, the disarming inclination to feel tender remorse and manly simpatico for this haunted kingly corpse, as a father must do with his children, and likewise a general with his troops. It is better to be cremated, as I subsequently am, immolated atop a bed of the most eminent majesty, the last vestiges of my deceased and finished body ending their time of corporeal imprisonment as ash and cinders in the forest wind.

    As I crossed from creaturehood into immortality, similarly does the somber morning pass into noon. So too the literal clouds of nature’s sadness, hiding their eyes from the sight of cruelty, break over the solemn gathering and disappear, to unmask the resilient flame of our immortal sun. Onto the tribunal of imperial office steps my Caius, my own Gratian at his side; the bosses of their mantles sparkle as they catch the glimmer of the daylight, the shadows fall down the hard, austere lines of their faces in commanding streaks. In a fulsome voice to the assembly of the soldiers says Caius, “We have come through, soldiers, Romans, of the nations and peoples of the empire not many armies, but whether in war, whether in brotherhood, whether in victory or even defeat both truly as one, as a loyal and permanent host, unblemished at either giving or completing battle, always, no matter the time or the occasion, true heroes of this ancient Roman Republic!!” I sigh as his speech is drowned out by the roar of the legionaries, pleased at the ring of so many of my choice sentencelets. “We know in battle: the order of the commander, whether he be at hand or afar, passes with us for law – to him passes victory be he living or dead! But though it counts for nothing with you, o soldiers, I would have you know regardless that he yet watches you but every day, proud because of your undying courage!”

    In the interim of the soldiers’ cheering and hollering he exercises the force of his ministerial responsibility and turns correctly aside, by the decline of his cloaked shoulderblade yielding tactfully the place of importance to my legal son, the one true Gratianus Augustus. How right I was to trust in the boy’s blooming imperial virtues though he were only a child of 7 years, the worth of which is now harvested to my grateful eyes and ears as I behold his redoubtable royal manner. Not unlike a bust doth he stand square, firm upon the lofty tribunal and the hungry eyes of the onlooking Romans feast upon him with the comfort and intimacy of perfect privacy. Already a consummate athlete and distinguished warrior, he grows but further in mass beneath the newfound weight of the resplendent Augustal diadem and cloak, appearing to the army like a boulder of imperial majesty. “The life of a mortal man can only pass in body, but our offices, our spirits, our efforts all survive, in the memory of us, who keep them!” By a grand gesture, he hailed Gratian with the palm of his hand. “So we soldiers can be no better set than to have one for our commander, who is in every way, both by life, by office, and by spirit, the one, the undoubtably true, and only Augustus, son of Valentinian himself! Soldiers!” he shook their ranks as he beat the metal of his breastplate with an iron fist, “verily, accept your emperor!!”

    The outcry is enormous, such that many in the Scholate guard wince and heave at the din clanging within their ears, the horses rear up in fear and the birds take flight into the cold noonday, still my Gratianus utters not a sound, betrays not an inch of movement, as if in taking the office of emperor he has surrendered indeed all mortal life itself. He has no need to act; by arrangement, the picked men of the Guard step unto the base of the tribunal and with sweat pouring down their faces they dump the cauldrons of the solidii and the nummi until the priceless coins heap together on the lawn like autumn leaves. As the rank-and-file break madly for the gift, the stern hands of the Palatines are just at the side; to each man as he scoops up his fill they seize him by the elbow and toss him toward the camp, with the injunction to prepare himself for the march.



    Many times though we may have been quote-unquote “treated” to the hospitality of these stinking Germanic kings, in their rude and menacing stronghold fort of Vicus Alemanni, inasmuch as they think bald-faced intimidation and boorish insults may pass for niceties, still we have not been able to glean much of the Alemanni’s military strength, either before or after my death. There is no way to tell anymore – these puffed-up Germanic superkings never bother to host their army in one place, as we decadent Romans have come to doing, but instead they give every man a shield and spear and wait until the last moment to call their whole lot together. Our scouts tell us, from what the naked eye has been able to discern, we exceed these Alemanni at least in number if not certainly in quality of arms. That is all I need to know, for we can make up the difference in arms in a way which for numbers we cannot. Although neither perfect nor ideal, this is the green light for our invasion.



    One hour before sunrise, the ninth of November in the 1115th year of the city, our Grand Army breaks without warning from otherwise unassuming garrison quarters into a full-scale approach at the nearer side of the Rhine. Wooden planks of carefully-cut variety, painstakingly excised over a period of months from the usual intake of the foragers, are thrown down upon the spot and the carpenters fall to hacking them together. Our legionaries crowd the shore of the river with the utmost readiness, bearing their spears as a deadly and flashing deterrent to the cantankerous Germans who begin to amass skulkingly on the other bank. If there are too many of them, my stone-throwers will teach them a lesson for their lack of manners. With each hour, our bridge grows yet faster across the turgid flow. The barbarians fall upon the effort with deadly resolve, their arrows and javelins rain death overhead the workers straining with crimson limbs to advance the road. At the last, our ingenious plot: one last, hulking board of wood the workers fling exhausted over the lip of the bridge and down onto the sands of the German river as an exit ramp. Our handpicked warriors race across, but these Alemanni have seen enough and they flee, preferring to trade their dignity for a more suitable and treacherous day of battle.

    The rest of the day we spend bivouacking the Army across, the horses do not like the slush and the chill of the frozen Rhine but still they cross. We barely finish before nightfall, yet in my disembodied state I can see that the country is quiet for some miles around. Even that brute Hortar, whose newfangled kinship with the Alemanni chief was boasted so loudly, he’s not anywhere to be found. All of the enemy forces are either away under his banner, or crowded into the Alemanni camp for the winter.





    At morningtime the next day, comes the time to send the signal to our other forces. Our imperial messengers bring word to the commander at Augusta Vindelicorum: the crossing is complete. Now it’s time to commit, and by the sealed order of Gratianus Augustus himself, the limitanei border guards are vexillated into a new detachment and ordered to come join the army at once. Meanwhile we’re still waiting on an additional legion, the one we managed to extract from Gaul amidst various dissensions.



    Now it’s time for Roman military engineering to do its work. The Alemanni fort itself is, of course, capably built, and as it rests upon a steep hill it will be difficult to storm the defenses. But this bold, arrogant brute, in his determination to menace the homes and lives of the innocent Roman people, has overreached himself. He’s not only far away from most of his allies, he’s also too close to the Rhine and in an awkward spot, where we can pin him easily in one place. While we’re waiting for our reinforcements to trickle in, Minister Caius sets the legions to work building a trio of forts – one, two, and three as they lie dead across the approach to the Alemanni stronghold be it north, east, or south. These unruly Germans are gated in. But that won’t be the case for long, as the workers set to constructing rams to batter down the palisade.



    I see into the fire-lit halls of this stately wood and ivory palace, as he sits there morose in state amidst the menacing presence of his followers and champions, the one they call Suomar, King of the Alemanni. They say he is the son of the one God, the offspring of the Sky, who shall bring the heavenly anger to bear against weaklings and sinners. But he is no bear, more like a sheep or a slaughter pig rather, hemmed into the place of his carefully crafted death. With what remarkable alacrity his manly inclinations fume and rail against the imposition of a drawn-out siege. Let us hope, in his ire, he might fall into stupidity and recklessness, as the barbarian ilk are known to do, intemperate and uncouth as they are.



    He is not half angry enough. It is not just an insult and a bane to his kingly virtue, to lie entrapped as such – it is moreover the peril of a snare itself! For my conquest of Germania is in the highest mold of kings, and like that great Caesar, I will triumph not because I have come to exterminate, but because I have come to conquer. Let us start from the foot we have, and walk thence. I will make nigh a cartoonish villain from these Alemanni, and ensure that their name goes down into the lowest reaches of infamy, be it in any corner of the German country! And to that effect, I reach out by simple and timely overtures to this Suomar’s nearest neighbor, the one who goes about calling himself King of the Franks.






    But they did not come by this proud name from taking bribes. Though he is all smiles and success for my envoys, no liberality comes our way. He would rather deal on his own terms; well, then we shall see what this Frankish king has in mind. Only let him know that the price of Roman steel is set in stone!

    I have other plans to worry about. My thoughts turn in succession to the Frisii, a treacherous nation with which we have been forced to treat of late. Sometimes pirates, sometimes victims, depending upon the convenience of their telling it, these Belgian spawn are too meek among their German colleagues to rank as any threat, but to the contrary, their flat and widespread country may work for us as a highway into the deeper reaches of Germania. While we establish our base in the area, I pass the time considering what means we might use to bring them low.





    They have no army, but rather constitute a nation of bandits and thieves drawn together by a shared misfortune. Still, any operation which deploys Roman soldiers into the field risks losing men that we literally are unable to replace. A surgical approach will have to be used subduing these Belgian ilk. And first, the scalpel.





    Hmph. Next time, no doubt. I do not intend to give this up. Rather, I will send the message clearly to any would-be kings or princes of the German bogs: your time in office, is a matter I will directly adjudicate – and the penalty for overstaying your welcome, I assure you, is an untimely end.

  10. #10
    Alwyn's Avatar Frothy Goodness
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    Default Re: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    That's a very eye-catching opening line! It sounds like the Romans are proceeding carefully into Germania, hopefully this careful planning and preparation will pay off. The tactics of Minister Caius at the Alemanni stronghold sounds authentically Roman.

  11. #11
    Caillagh de Bodemloze's Avatar to rede I me delyte
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    Default Re: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    I rather like the continuing presence, awareness, and talkativeness of the now-deceased Valentinian. It's an inventive way to represent the player, I think. I'm intrigued to discover how Valentinian's influence over current and future events will manifest itself!






  12. #12

    Default Re: Not a Day More [RTW:BI - Western Roman Empire]

    Thank you for the nice comments guys, as I feared, I didn't have time to add as much as I'd have liked before the semester began. Like the emperor's ambitions to restore the greatness of Rome, however, I refuse to consider this story finished. There will be updates in the future, it may just take awhile. Thank you for reading!

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