CHAPTER I
SPREADING THE WORD

As he left the late Emperor’s chambers, Rolf had to remind himself that he was a great warrior just to hold back the wracking sobs of grief, and a misconceived sense of guilt, that threatened at any moment to overwhelm him. He told himself again and again that the Emperor had been a great warrior too; he would be well on his way to Valhalla by now. But for some reason, that didn’t seem to ease the pain of knowing that he would never see him again. Oh, fate was cruel, to spare the bodyguard but kill the charge!

He barely noticed his steps carrying him back into the atrium of the Emperor’s Palace, the Domvs Aqvilae. He just managed to register that as soon as he walked in, everyone fell silent and looked his way.

Duty, Rolf. Duty to the Eagle King.

Slowly, he forced himself to raise his head. When he spoke, he had to fight to keep the pain of loss out of his voice.

“Quintus Julius Caesar is no more.”

He need not have spoken; the expression on his face said it all. The packed atrium exploded into a thousand frantic discussions all around him. Rolf, as proud and mighty a warrior as was not to be found, between the sunrise over the green marshes of Maeotia and the sunset below the golden sands of Africa, fell to his knees, and wept.

Soon after, other men, doctors, guardsmen and slaves arrived in the atrium, confirming Rolf’s story. The Emperor was indeed gone. In the general upheaval, nobody noticed a small figure dressed in dirty gray robes slip outside.

* * * * * * * * * *

Not far from the Palatine Hill where the Domvs Aqvilae stood was the Subura district; the slums of Rome. Hundreds of tall, rickety insulae many stories higher than was sensible housed the Eternal City’s hvmiliores; the poor, the bankrupt, the runaway slaves, the condemned criminals, deserters from the legions who couldn’t face leaving home… the most disreputable of all the Roman citizen body. And it was here that the dirty-gray-robed figure had to come to meet his contact.

To give the reader some impression of just what the Subura was like, on his way to a Tavern not quarter of a mile into the Subura, the dirty-gray-robed figure was nearly beaten to a pulp by a drunken lunatic who thought he was his father, narrowly avoided being showered with human nutritional by-product emptied out of a window onto the street, and was very nearly seduced by a transvestite. Despite all this however, he somehow made it into the tavern where his employer awaited his update on the Emperor’s situation everyday at noon. It was not, however, yet that late; so the gray-robed figure found a table, sat down, and ordered some cheap wine.

And hour or so later, his employer came in.

He wore a long black cloak, and his hood was up. The gray-robed figure could feel his eyes sweep the room before he spotted him. At once he came over to him. His voice was quiet.

“So; what news?”

“Wha – what? What news?”

“Don’t give me that sort of shit. Give me news. What do I pay you for?”

As the gray-robed figure still looked nonplussed, the black-robed figure seized him by the sleeve, led him into a corner, and emptied a jug of water belonging to a man asleep on his table over his employee’s head. That sobered him up a bit.

“Is the Emperor still alive?”

“No. He is dead.”

“Well, if he is not still alive, I can assume he is dead. Thank you, Loqvax; you have been most helpful.”

Thereupon, he drew a knife from the folds of his cloak, and plunged it into his informer’s heart. Leaving him slumped against the wall to die, the black-robed figure turned to meet the gaze of another, similarly clad, in the other corner. He nodded once.

Less than an hour after that, two dark-robed figures rode out of the Porta Flaminia.

* * * * * * * * * *

“I think we no longer have any need of these cloaks, Eyjolf.”

As they set off North at a quick canter that their hardy mounts could keep up for miles on end, the speaker threw back his hood to reveal a handsome, pale face, marked on the cheekbones with broad blue lines, and spiky, white-blond hair. His companion, hesitantly, followed suit. His hair was long, and a dark reddish-brown, and his were pale-blue and bright – the eyes of a hunter, or a thief, that darted everywhere and took in every detail. Both riders were quite young; at a glance, neither as old as twenty-five.

“Frankly, Tristan my friend, I think we do, but I cannot bear to boil beneath one any longer.”

In the interim, Tristan had removed his cloak and slung it over his shoulder. Eyjolf rolled his up and carefully placed it in a saddlebag. It was a hot day, in late May by the Roman reckoning, and it was the custom of both their peoples for men to go around bare-chested in Summer. And so they rode through North Latium, unabashedly barbarian, talking and laughing as if they had known each other all their lives.

“I would like to compliment you on your efficient silencing of that Loqvax. A slippery character. I wonder how long it will take the Emperor’s household to miss him.”

“Some time, I’ll wager. And when they do, they’ll say nothing. They’ll be glad to have him out of the way!”

“I dare say. So, how far do you ride today?”

“I go as far as Centumcellae, up on the coast; there the next man will pick up the message, and ride as far as Mons Argentarium, where another will take it. Thus it will travel as far as Venta Cheruscorum.”

“The gods have brought us together! My destination is the same as yours. We have two hours’ ride ahead of us, and then I take it you will stay the night at Centumcellae?”

“Indeed; and the next day I set off at a gentler pace back to my own people.”

“So? Will you come as far as Augusta Treverorum with me? I would certainly appreciate your company, and we would be safer traveling together.”

“Why not?”

“Well, since we will be traveling together, we should probably get to know one another. I know you are of the Germani; but which tribe?”

“I am of the once-mighty Cherusci. And yourself?”

“I am of the Silures; also once-mighty, but that was a long time ago. I hope the twin revolts our tribes are planning – in Britannia Superior and Germania Magna – will restore to both of them their past honor.”

“Hush, Tristan! You don’t know who could be listening! I hope your kinsmen are not so free of tongue that they will talk of such things mere miles from Rome herself!”

“Relax, Eyjolf; even if anyone was listening, they would not be able to hear over the noise of our horses’ hooves unless they were standing right beside us.”

“You speak the truth; nonetheless, be mindful of what you say.”

* * * * * * * * * *

That same day, some two hundred messengers were dispatched from the Eternal City to carry the news across the Empire. In an emergency, Roman messengers could travel a hundred and fifty miles a day: they would reach Tarraco, capital of Hispania, where Titus Julius was stationed, in under a week; or Augusta Treverorum, capital of the three Germaniae, in just over four days; it could have spread to Byzantium in a fortnight, and to Antioch and Alexandria in under three weeks. News traveled fast in the Roman Empire; and nothing Decimus Julius, now sole consul, in de facto command of Rome, could do, could slow it down.

He had barely seemed affected at all when a guard had come to find him in his study in the Domvs Aqvilae to tell him the news.

“Sir, your father, the Emperor is dead.”

“Ah. Yes. Such a tragedy. Well, it has happened then. I shall be down presently.”

His tone was dry; devoid of all emotion. The guard left without another word. Once he was sure he was alone, Decimus Julius sat back and smiled.

“At last.”

Following the Emperor's death hurried whispers in dark alleys made deals trying to insure safety and power. No one knew who would be the new emperor or how any of the candidates would act in the attempt to seize power. Bodies turned up daily as people who could not be persuaded to provide support were eliminated. As the news spread across the world the empire held its breath, waiting to see who would strike first...

*********************

Faustus Cornelius watched Lucius as he approached the Imperial Palace. Looking over at the other senators to his left he got up and entered through the massive doorway to his lavish house. While it was big in comparison to the ordinary pleb's home, it could fit into one the rooms in his grand country villa a day's journey to the south.

The other senators entered after him. The group marched through the white halls. They were empty except for the odd slave or two and the marble pedestals that held carvings of Faustus' ancestors. They were only of the males of course.

As they turned a corner two of his personal guards stood to attention and opened the finely carved wooden doors ahead. No one talked as they entered and took their seats.
This was serious.

"As you all know," Faustus began from behind his podium, when everyone was silent, "A week ago, the Emperor, Quintus Julius Caesar Imperator, is dead. This is what we have been waiting for, it is time. We must act now and without delay..."

*********************

"Legate, a messenger has arrived; he says that he needs to see the Proconsul. Its matter of great importance." A watchman told Publius Titinius Culvus. Having been assigned to guard the provincial capital of Tarraco had made him angry to say the least.

"Well what are you doing here then? You know as well as everyone else in camp that he's away trying to retake Toletum to the West.
You of all people probably heard it in the tavern an hour after he left! You would also have heard that he had left only two days ago!" He knew that that was almost an exaggeration. Almost. He also knew how easy it was to get info in a tavern. He had done it when he was a soldier trying to remove his competitors for positions no matter what it was.

"What do you want me to tell him, sir?" The watchman eyed Publius nervously hoping not to be the target of his full rage.

"Tell him to get a cohort together and head inland to Titus. However also tell him to wait until morning." The damn Iberians could have blocked the road or be laying in wait for a Roman force to ambush. And a cohort wouldn't even be nearly enough.
The watchman left him alone. Publius brushed his long-sweat soaked hair out of his large eyes and went back to his plain wooden desk.

He re-read the message again that had arrived a few days previously. It was an order signed by the emperor himself saying that he should attack the rebels in the mountains. It was suicide sending a legion into the heart of rebel territory. But it was the emperor himself that had signed it.

A few hours later a chorus of trumpets rang out of the fort, where the legion was stationed, and into the darkness. As legionaries scrambled to get their weapons and get in line, the Legate having made his decision rode calmly to the centre of the camp, he was flanked by his officers.
When the Legion was assembled all but one of the cohorts marched out of the gate behind Legate Publius Titinius Culvus.

They were marching into a trap...

*********************

In the early morning light Maxentius Domitius Avitus, the Pilus Prior of the only cohort that didn't leave with Publius, had watched solemnly as the others in his legion marched into the night. His heart was heavy as he had turned away and tried to get some sleep. He knew that his cohort would move out in the morning taking the only safe route to Toletum. They were the escort that the messenger had been given.

A day later and they had caught up with the slow moving imperial army. A small group of the most senior officers and the messenger were ushered into the command tent and told to wait for Titus. Maxentius didn't like this one bit, he had to escort a messenger who had turned up out of no-where and he didn't even know what the message was. It made him sigh with frustration. His eyes finally settled on where the scroll that his charge should have carried was not.

As Titus entered Maxentius and his fellow officers stood to attention.
"What message is so important that you need to tell me in the middle of the night and that you have to have an entire cohort come along to protect you?" Titus didn't seem angry, only curious.

"Sir, the emperor. He's dead." The messenger nearly broke down crying at that moment. Everyone else in the room could only stare in disbelief.
Maxentius had run the sentence through his mind again and then a third time to make sure he had heard it right.

"Make the army ready to march; we are going to end this revolt once and for all. Also find out what Decimus and Aulus are planning. And if its possible find out what the senators are up to," Titus collapsed in shock.

Chapter Two
Vade in pace

The body that had once been Quintus Julius Caesar Imperator had been taken from the Palatine Hill to the old senate house down in the forum to allow the people of Rome to pay their respects, which they did in their droves. The Germanic Guard took their vigil over their beloved emperor for one last time as people from all walks of life shuffled past, muttering thanks or blessings. The Senate couldn’t sit with their marble building invaded by commoners, but there was talk already of deification and shrines to be set up in Quintus’ honour. Of course, that was a given- the large amount of supporters the emperor had among the senators coupled with the great love his subjects gave him meant that to stand against such motions would be literal suicide.

When the soul left a body, it was customary for a close relative would close the deceased’s eyes while calling out their name. A coin would then be placed in the mouth to pay the dead- Charon’s payment, as it was bleakly called. Rolf had watched as Decimus Julius Caesar Filius, the consul and politician had swept in with his followers to perform the rite. The man was of average height, and remarkably few distinguishing features for one so gifted and powerful- the brown hair was kept in the present fashion of the day, the double chin barely noticeably below the Roman nose often seen around in the streets. The grey eyes, however, marked him out- quick intelligent and almost smiling most of the time Rolf had seen him, but the German could also see a steel under it- those tax amendments didn’t get passed through charisma alone. Much like his mother’s, as Quintus used to remark.

Decimus had done the ritual, and placed a golden aureus in his father’s mouth- the highest single coin in circulation. His hangers and favour-seekers followed his every move, muttering ceaselessly their false condolences and best wishes, but moved quickly out the way for Decimus to walk through them. The consul moved towards the door where Rolf was standing and watching. Drawing up to him, he paused, and said something just the guardsman could hear.
“I will see you soon, Rolf, father’s protector.”

Rolf didn’t like that. He had spent the next few days actively avoiding the man, and was thinking back to this while taking the last watch of the night with a few choice men, and the torches were burning low, flickering on the polished marble of the senate house. There was just something… wrong in the way Decimus had said that, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps it was the fact that, after wavering in the calling of his father’s name, Decimus said that sentence quietly and normally, as if he was remarking on the weather. It was something to look out for, anyway. The guardsman shifted his gaze down from the high wall he had spent the last half hour staring at down to the temporary stand erected in the middle of the box-like Senate house. The emperor’s body had been lying in wake for a week now- the pyre had been built in sight of the city walls, and it was due to be fired the next day. Rolf looked at his old friend’s lined face again- the blue eyes that would never open and the whisps of white hair that covered his head. The strong mouth, and yes, that typical Roman nose again. He seemed at peace. But there was one small thing his friend needed to do to make him happy. Rolf had waited until now, when it was too late for visitors, to do this- it would be considered sacrilege by some, but Quintus would have wanted this. He opened the emperor’s mouth, and removed the gold coin. He didn’t make sure the guards weren’t looking- they were his men, and approved of what he was doing. Then, reaching into his money pouch, he drew a brass dupondius out and put it in the gold coin’s place. The money Quintus had to pay his fare wouldn’t be that of an emperor, but that of a commoner.

Part 2 to follow.

The Romans had a very systematic approach to an important death. After the ritual on the deathbed and the wake, which of course went on longer the more important the person was, a procession was held. It had relatives, professional mourners and musicians leading the way to the pyre, a huge four-tier structure that would reduce the body to ashes. The pyre would then be fired, and invariably the closest males to the deceased would get drunk on wine- not strictly part of the official ceremony, but Rolf planned to honour this tradition in Germanic fashion.

As befitting the man’s station, the procession lasted the good part of the afternoon. Officially, Decimus had organised it, though it was more likely one of his lackeys that wanted to impress him. Everything was grander than anything that had happened previously- there were more mourners, not only those wearing masks of the deceased’s ancestors, but also the criers and moaners following the procession. There were hundreds of them, many of them volunteers, performing out of love. There were enough musicians to supply the entire army with signallers. The carriage was greater than anything that had been through Rome’s streets, overloaded as it were with white roses. Even the route chosen was something unheard of- reverse triumphal route, including the Via Sacra.

The Sacred Way was the main through road for Rome. If the Roman empire was a fit and agile body, then the city of Rome would be a mere ribcage- the heart, the most important of organs, would be this avenue. On any day freemen, slaves, foreigners, priests, soldiers, senators, and perhaps the odd ruler of the known world would walk its stones on their business. It was colonnaded, lined with temples that dated back to Republican times and lay in the shadows of the Palatine and Captioline hills. It had the triumphal arches of emperors, notably Titus’ relatively compact one awarded for the capture and sack of Jerusalem, and the much larger one of Manius Julius Lupus Caesar, still bearing the scars of the riots caused by his successor’s decree taxing the poor’s donative of state wheat. A few yards down from the latter and you were standing between the Senate house and the rostra, with a clear view of the great Flavian Amphitheatre if you were tall enough to see over the heads of the bustling, colourful, chattering, smelling masses. It was part of the traditional route for religious festivals and triumphs, and had seen many history made on its stones. It would see it again today.

The sun shone over subdued Rome. A small late afternoon breeze danced in the trees on the Palatine hill, site of the imperial palace. It was a huge complex with gymnasiums, baths complexes and even a dining room that consisted of an island with a finely carved wooden bridge spanning what was for all intents and purposes a pond that was home to several hundred fish. There was also a small stone balcony that opened on the northeast face of the palace. It caught the sun through most of the day, and was in a relatively quiet area of the palace. The spot was also a favourite of Quintus, and Rolf found himself there the next day. He had inspected the guardsmen as every day, and had his time in the stadium of Domitian for morning exercise. But he was now out of things to do to stop himself thinking about the funeral. He was almost grateful when Aulus Julius Caesar, ‘son’ of Decimus and Cornelia, appeared with a slave dictating something.

“Guardsman,” he said, nodding to Rolf who stiffened and saluted, before adding “That would be all, thank you,” to the slave.

Aulus watched the slave bow and leave, making sure he was out of earshot. He then avoided Rolf’s eye, instead preferring to look over the basilicas below.

“Such a hot day today. There will be no rain to douse my grandfather’s pyre tonight, thank the Gods.”

Rolf waited. A member of the imperial household didn’t make themselves alone with someone so they could talk about the weather unless they were a woman or had Greek tastes. This was definably not the case here.

“Things are going to change, aren’t they?” Aulus said quietly. He leant on the stone, watching the carriage slowly move its way to the Senate house. Rolf watched him. The Roman was well liked by most, with an agreeable temperament unless sorely harried, and was lucky enough to both inherit natural military ability that came from his biological father and have his mind finely coached by his presumptive father. It was a shame he was lied to about his parentage, but it would cause trouble if the truth came out. Though, then again, with present events, perhaps it would make a useful weighted dice to keep up a sleeve.

“Yes, sir.” Rolf replied. “The time between any king and his successor is always uncertain among my people- I can only imagine what it will be like in the coming weeks.”

“My father and uncle both thought themselves as natural heirs,” Aulus said. “They’re sensible men, but we’ve seen in the past how power turns brothers against each other.”

“It is a tragedy, sir.”

Aulus frowned. “Rolf, you’re doing that soldier’s habit of not saying anything again. Is there something on your mind?”

The question took Rolf by surprise- he had briefly forgotten Aulus had seen action with the eagles, and knew when a soldier was trying to avoid letting anything slip.
“I think, sir, that you are late for the procession.”

“So I am,” Aulus said, glancing at the rose-laden wagon that had finally reached the Senate house. “I hope you will walk with me there?”

“I am stationed at the pyre, to make sure everything is uninterrupted.”

“There is not a man in Rome who would want to, much less dare,” Aulus smiled.
Senetor Cornelius would, thought Rolf wryly. But instead, he said “None-the-less, that is where I go, sir.”
“We shall see you there, then.”

The procession took a very long time. It was only when the sun was bathing the walls with a deep orange light that Aia, second in command of the Germanic Guard, came to find Rolf. Aia was a large man, even by Germanic standards, and his shaggy hair was curiously bleached blond as was custom for men from his tribe.

“They’ve reached the gate, sir,” he said after dropping his saulte. “They’ll be here any second now.”

“Fine,” Rolf replied. Aia turned and roared at the guardsmen to stand to. The ceremonial armour clinked as the first cohort of the guard straightened up. They were formed in a square two ranks deep around three sides of the pyre, and their polished shields that were adorned with the eagle and thunderbolts of Jupiter flashed brightly as the carriage eventually lumbered its way towards the pyre. The white roses had been joined with some other flowers the people had thrown on from the side of the roads that had managed to stay on. The mourners dissipated, and the musicians fell quiet. The imperial household stayed, and were joined by the high priests, and Aulus could be briefly seen standing next to his father and mother before they were surrounded by white robes.

The next hour seemed to last for ages for Rolf. The six most senior officers of the Germanics, including himself, bore the body onto the pyre. They were warriors of the highest standard, and pride for them came before everything else, but there were more than one pair of tearful eyes. No attempts were made to hide them from the onlookers, though- not all tears are shameful, no matter who sheds them. They gently lowered the body onto the top of the pyre. Rolf remembered the night before, and putting the bronze coin in Quintus’ mouth, and suddenly felt he had jeopardised his friend’s chance of getting safely over the Styx as Romans believed what would happen. He couldn’t do anything about it, though- not here. He would just have to trust that his act wasn’t miscalculated.

After they had returned to their station, a small priest with a white hooded robe came forward that Rolf didn’t recognise. He started addressing the gathered from a specially erected platform, with prayers and wishes for the Emperor and tales of his exploits. It should have been an exciting tale- the man had battled many enemies, steered his people through crisis after crisis and still be the most loved man in Rome, but the priest made Rolf wish with all his heart an arrow would pluck his heart out just to make him shut up. It was depressing- such a full and magnificent life, reduced to a priest’s monotone. Where Rolf came from, the fire would be lit, and men would be singing songs in the local watering hole about the deceased while shouting to the Gods that they should allow him at their feast of heroes.

“Let’s hope the Isis is a true god, and he will be granted another life like he hoped,” Aia muttered. Rolf grunted. The emperor had been a worshipper of the Goddess imported from Egypt, and had requested the white roses for the funeral, as they were associated with her. Typically, courtiers had taken it to extremes, and Rome had ended up with a great big pile of them on the carriage.

“I hope that every day,” a thin voice said. The two guardsmen looked to their left, and found Senator Gaius Licinius had joined them. The man was one of the Emperor’s closest allies, but suffered from anorexia- he would not touch his food for fears of what it would do to him, and his wife had to often order the slaves to force it down his throat. The man walked slowly, forever appearing drained and tired. He was bald, probably not helped by his illness, and had to use a stick to support himself. Licinius was also leader of a large faction of pro-imperial senators who primarily stood to make sure the ideals of Rome- as they saw it- were being served, and was a good orator, though not to the standard of Decimus Julius. Aia and Rolf nodded their heads to the senator.

“It’s a shame it has to end like this,” Licinius said, nodding towards the priest. “I really did advise Quintus against the appointment of the new Pontifex Maximus, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“So you decided to pass the time, senator?” Rolf asked.

“Have to keep stretching my legs every now and again,” Licinius replied. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to the ear of Rolf. “What will the Germanic Guard do now, Guardsman?”

“We’ve yet to decide, senator,” Aia replied, showing that he could still hear. It was true, though- there had been no discussion on that. The man they loved and swore to protect had gone, but many of the guard were quietly muttering about marching home and seeing their homelands for the first time in years.

“We shall let you know, senator, when we have decided,” Rolf said. The priest had finished recounting the Emperor’s life, and was now appearing to give a blessing on a torch that would be lit and used to light the pyre.

“You know why Titus isn’t here?” Licinius asked.

“He is busy dealing with the Iberians,” Rolf answered.

“But he could have come home from the front as soon as he heard the news to attend the funeral, couldn’t he?”

“It would be bad for a general to leave suddenly,” Aia said doubtfully. The man had a point- Titus could easily be here outside the walls of Rome with them today. Licinius clicked his fingers and a slave appeared out of nowhere, handing him a letter.
“Even so, this letter probably sealed the decision,” the senator continued, passing it to Rolf discreetly. “You will read it later, but it is a copy of the one Decimus sent to his brother last week. You will see that he has said to Titus that the body was decomposing rapidly, and the funeral had to be made within two days of death.”

“Why would he do that?” Rolf asked.

“When people realise Titus could have been at the funeral when no reports of action come in from Iberia, but missed it regardless, they will love him even less than before.”
“And make them more receptive to Decimus as ruler,” Rolf finished. Licinius nodded. The torch was passed to Decimus, who lit it in a brazier at the foot of the pyre.

“This letter is proof that the two brothers are moving against each other even as we speak. It means that things will become… untidy around the city,” the senator said delicately. “It will cause days to become darker for everyone. But especially the commoners of the streets.”

Something clicked in Rolf’s mind- he suddenly knew where this was heading.

“Would the Emperor, may the Gods speed him onwards,” Licinius said, licking his lips, “allow you and the Germanic Guard to walk away from them in their hour of need?”

Decimus lit the pyre. The flames spread from where he touched the wood through the structure, gradually becoming fiercer until, as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, a great flame erupted and licked the burnt orange sky. The body of the Emperor lay within, with the bronze coin in the mouth.

[This message has been edited by EnemyofJupitor (edited 10-23-2009 @ 11:34 AM).]

Chapter 3 – Titus and The Iberian Question

************************************

“Your father’s body is decomposing too rapidly to await your return,” read Lucius Aemilius Calenus from the letter of Decimus Caesar. His voice rose with more incredulity upon every word he read until he completed the letter. “That bastard...”

Titus looked up from where he was cradling his head in his arms in his grief. “What do you mean, Lucius? He was a sick old man. Of course he would rot fast.”

Lucius shook his head then clasped his hands upon the shoulders of his grieving friend. “Both of us have seen dead men, in these hills- more than we would like. Some were healthy, young soldiers killed by the Iberians, others old, decrepit Iberians killed by passing guerillas or soldiers. And Fufius, the governor- assassinated in his villa and left dead for a week before we found him. He was a sick old man, too. This climate, Titus, it is the same as Rome. Bodies do not rot that fast! Your brother writes this to justify his holding a quick funeral- one to which you were not invited- and have it appear that he is the devoted son, while you are too aloof to care.”

Titus straightened up. Thoughts dashed hither and yon at lightning speed through his military mind as he attacked and assaulted this repulsive idea. But alas he could make no headway, and came to a proper military decision. “I must get to Rome.”

“It is already too late,” Aemilius replied. “You could never make it in time.”

“Then I must burn this nest of traitors in Toletum as a fitting pyre for my father,” he determined with conviction.

The burning glare in his friend’s eyes told Lucius that there was no arguing with this point. They were good friends, having grown up together and having had the same tutor, and while he could get away with many things, Lucius Aemilius Calenus knew he could not change his friend’s mind when it came to conquest or battle. Some things were just meant to be. But he could and would give advice concerning that. As often as not it was actually heeded.

“Put his revolt down quickly, Titus,” he advised, ”and you may yet make it to Rome in time to ascend the throne before your brother steals your birthright.”

Titus shook his shaggy head. Calenus was a proper nobleman and senator, canny in the ways of magistrates, but he did not know his brother very well. “Decimus would never do that. He knows I would crush him like a beetle beneath my caligulae. Besides, he owes me. I have saved his ass many times.”

“Right,” said Lucius. “He is a horrible general, and the masses all love a conquering hero. You are a fool, Titus.” Only Calenus could get away with calling Titus a fool in public- one of the few benefits of being the man’s best friend and trusted ally. ”Even when we were kids together, studying the masters, you were hung up on war and glory, totally neglecting the art of the masses. We both followed Caesar, but where I went on to Cicero and Augustus, you were hung up on Marius, Sulla, Corbulo, and Germanicus. Can you name three of the greatest and most-loved rulers of our Empire, Titus?”

“Caesar Dictator, Augustus, and my father,” he replied quickly. “That was easy.”

“And correct,” Lucius told him. “Caesar and Augustus did wonderful things while emperor, and did indeed expand the empire. As did your father. But they were not loved for their conquests, my combative friend. They were loved for the laws and prosperity they brought. All three served long, which helps with stability, and stability breeds prosperity, yet all three were giants on the political stage- as is your brother.”

A light went off in the head of Titus. “He would have me do his conquering, then he reaps the glory. That is not fair.”

“He would indeed, and it is not fair. But he has political power. You do not.”

“I have the legions,” Titus replied. “I’ve fought in every theatre, and never have the men failed to weep when I moved off. Even the men my brother commanded in Dacia.”

“You will not have them long. Your brother moves quickly, But if you do as well, you may be able to stop him and claim your rightful post. Crush this revolt, then hand the Iberians a fair peace. That will free up your three legions of the Northern Reserve. Your brother has but five cohorts available to him, and that is only if the Germanic Guard decides to follow him.”

“Why would they not, if he is emperor?” Titus asked, confused. It was to him a clear chain of command. The Germanic Guard follows the emperor. If his brother is made emperor, then the Guard follows him.

“Here is where you learn the difference between military life and political,” Lucius pointed out. “The Germanic Guard followed your father the man, not the emperor. They were intensely devoted to Quintus Caesar. I think they, being warriors, will despise your brother. I think, if you are successful here rather quickly, you will find your brother pleasing the Romans- with no troops at all around him. Your quick and fair obliteration of this revolt would go far to showing the people of Rome you can be a good ruler as well.”

Titus stood up. His face was a mask of determination, and his entire demeanor changed from a grieving, weak-willed man to a successful commander of legions. The aura of command glowed about him, becoming bright enough to penetrate the darkest of emotions. Lucius smiled- this was the man he so admired!

“Pass the orders, Lucius. We leave in the morning. And quickly. Crush anything in our way. And Mars help the fool who gets in the way of this army!”

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

Publius Titinius Culvus and the III Gallica were almost to the fortieth milestone from Toletum. So far they had had only minor skirmishes with irregular guerillas, but this close to Toletum would draw the main Iberian rebel armies to him like flies to fresh dung. Here is where his orders said to build a camp. And then fortify. And then hold out. He was damned glad his legion had its full complement of attached auxilia. Though the spearmen might not be of much use during a storm, nor the cavalry for that matter, the archers and artillery were definitely a plus for a defense.

“Get that camp up proper, primus pilus!” he ordered. “I want towers on all corners, and the artillery mounted on bastions in the center of each wall. Prefect- get those supplies inside pronto. Those buggers will be on us any time now.”

“Aye, legate,” the men replied. They knew as well as he did that if this risky plan did not work, they were well and truly screwed. Good bye, III Gallica. But then again, Titus Caesar had always had a good military head about him, and this was his plan.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

Eighty miles away, four other legions were marching down the road towards them. Compared to the ten-mile-per-day pace they had previously been holding, these legions were moving like lightning. Thirty miles each day they had moved- brushing aside any skirmishers and blowing through at least two roadblocks set up by the Iberians. Here the legionary cavalry of the Mobile Reserve Legions truly excelled.

But at the seventieth milestone, they abruptly changed direction and headed towards the mountains to the south.

“Ah, Titus,” Lucius called, “according to this milestone we are still thirty miles from where the III Gallica should be forted up in expectation of an attack.”

Titus looked about. “I think you are right,” he said with a grin. “And that attack will not come if there are four legions spotted on the way to rescue them. Thus we leave the road now, and move through the hilly countryside with at least one ridgeline between us and the road at all times- and at the same speed as if we were upon the road.”

“You can’t!” Aemilius cried. “Moving cross-country takes far longer. We’ll never make it in time.”

“Most of the Iberian rebels are to the north,” he replied. “They know our legions are on the move- they’ve seen it for months. And they know we have been moving ten miles per day. We covered a week’s worth of travel in the past two days- they do not expect us here now. But the III Gallica does, and we will move to rescue them. I will not have this army slow down and let an entire legion hang in the balance. No, we will move fast because we have to, and the men will do it because they know it could be them playing the III Gallica next time.”

Lucius nodded. The army would indeed move like lightning. Now he knew why Titus had sent his wagons and artillery back to Caesaraugusta the day after the news of his father came.


********** ********** ********** ********** **********

Diazolo also knew the Romans had gotten rid of their heavy equipment- his scouts had returned from the region around Caesaraugusta with the news. He also knew the Romans were on the move towards Toletum. He also knew- or thought he knew- that they were at least a week away from the isolated legion blocking the main road to Caesaraugusta.

It was that isolated legion that was the problem. It blocked the main road through the mountains on either side. The wagons of the traders- and those bringing food to the city- could not go around it as easily as his guerillas could. The lands to the south of the city were patrolled heavily by mounted auxilia- sealing the city from the south. Only from the west were supplies able to come- and the west was frantically scrambling to keep the city fed. To Diazolo, the solution was easy enough to discover- remove the legion.

Thus the rebel armies began moving. The smaller, that of his cousin Guineldo, would have the honor of taking the fort and slaughtering its inhabitants. The larger, his own, would move up behind it in case the Romans finally got some life into their attack.

He smiled broadly. No matter what the Romans do, he thought, they are mine.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

The III Gallica was assaulted by the Iberian rebels two days later. Titinius Culvus managed to repel the first two assaults easily enough by use of massed archers and artillery, but that third assault- when his arrows were exhausted- made it to the walls and onto the catwalks before being repulsed by the Dacian spearmen counterattacking with their swords.

Bodies littered the field, both inside and outside of the fort, and blood stained the walls and ground a dark crimson. A truce was called for by the Iberian commander to retrieve his dead and wounded, but that request was denied. Culvus would scour the field himself, and have his medici bring the wounded Iberians to the woodline. Guineldo was cautious, but agreed.

Culvus smiled and sent out his medics. They would bring the wounded away, true, but they would also bring arrows harvested on the field on their way in. Culvus needed them desperately.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

The next morning the attacks resumed. Culvus managed to repulse the first wave easily enough with his replenished supply, but then that was exhausted. Guineldo knew it too, and knew the next assault would mark the end of the bothersome legion. He formed up his men, gave them a rousing speech promising victory, then turned them loose upon the isolated fort.

He never knew what hit him. His men reached the walls in their frenzy, and threw up the ladders. Guineldo jumped with joy at seeing his men gain footholds, then a rude spearpoint jutted from his chest. He fell, with his men around him. Those further away heard the screams of the dying and turned in time to see a dozen or more Roman cohorts emerge from the southern scrub and converge around the assaulting army.

A great cheer went up from the fort as the IV Pia Fidelia and V Germanica closed in, catching the entire Iberian force between them and the fort and grinding it into dogfood. More cohorts followed, sweeping the field of wounded Iberians and turning them into dead ones, before following their brother cohorts in squashing the remainder.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

Diazolo heard of his cousin’s fate an hour later. A single horseman rode in, screaming of Roman treachery and ambush. At least a dozen cohorts had come upon Guineldo unseen and sealed his fate. All eyes had been toward the successful assault, none to the unguarded rear from which the legion emerged to kill.

The Iberian swore with what he knew he must do. He must avenge his cousin. He had thirty thousand warriors, all veterans, and knew these hills well. Two legions were ten thousand Roman foes, probably less, given the casualties sustained thus far. They were hardy fighters to take out his cousin’s army so quickly and thoroughly, but his men were both more numerous and willing to fight. He liked the odds.

“Mount up, men,” he cried. “Today we hunt Romans, and to the victor goes all of Hispana!”

Two legions, he thought. The entire garrison of the entire land. Kill those, and the other three will be easy enough- or withdraw. Either way, he saw the chance for Iberian independence glimmer before his experienced eyes.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

Lucius and Culvus moaned at the orders, but Titus was adamant. “It must be so,” he commanded, “or they will get away again. We halved their strength today- but they think we are few. That is why I did not commit the other legions. Even as we speak they are getting into position and covering themselves with brush and weeds. The IV Pia Fidelia must stand upon the road before this fort, and fall back when the Iberians come into sight.”

“But lord,” cried Culvus, “They shall again besiege us, and we are empty of arrows and pila. We cannot withstand another assault.”

Titus looked to Aemilius. “That is why your V Germanica is going to move into this fort with them. And bring them arrows while you are at it. Culvus, you have I’d say about four hours before they are here. It is recommended you scour the field outside and harvest as many as you can.”

“But we cannot man the walls,” Aemilius repeated. “Why not?”

“Because I do not want the Iberians knowing you are here, that’s why,” Titus retorted angrily. “You know politics well, Lucius, but I know no equal in tactics. Trust me.”

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

Diazolo thought the same thing about himself. He had fought a successful guerilla war for two years now, gaining more and bigger successes each time. All of the west and northwest of Iberia paid him fealty. Only the northeast and the south did not, but when he drives the legions from Hispana, then they too shall acknowledge his overlordship.

His scouts came back. “The fort still stands. Roman helmets were seen moving on the walls- they still own it. The other legion, the one which killed your cousin and his army, is lined up for battle across the road, anchored on the fort to the north.”

Diazolo smiled at the news. Both legions were present, and one formed up for battle! This was most pleasing- especially their disposition.

“Order Franco’s band to attack the Romani on the road, with Geralo and Dago swinging north around the little fort to attack them in the rear.”

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

Titus stood with legate Kaeso Caelus in the middle of the road as the Iberians approached. He noticed with a grin that two bands of warriors moved north, which would make his plan all the more believable.

“Give the order now, Kaeso, and be prepared to order the double-time if needed,” he commanded.

Caelus nodded. He knew full-well how fast Iberians could move when they wanted. Now they shall see that Romans can like wise move fast. He nodded to the cornifer, who blew the notes.

The legion spun about and began marching away, well out of reach of the Iberians.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

“So the chickens run,” Diazolo laughed as he watched the Romans retreat. “Tell Franco to let them go. We destroy the fort first, then finish those cowards afterward.”

The orders were given, and the Iberians let the Romans move off while they gathered around Culvus and the III Gallica.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

“Bloody hell,” Titus moaned as he saw the Iberians change direction. “Caelus, order the attack.”

Kaeso stood with mouth agape. “Attack them, heavily outnumbered and alone upon an open plain? Sir, is that wise?”

“Do it, legate,” the general ordered. “Or they will kill three legions this day, and maybe even all five.”

Caelus gulped, then gave the order. The men of the IV Pia Fidelia spun about and marched toward the Iberians again.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

“So the cowards come back,” Diazolo muttered. “And they will run away when they get close. I do not want to play this all day. Tell Geralo to besiege the fort until I return- this should not take long. Franco and Dago are to form up on me. It is time we hunt these little shits down and kill them. Then we take this fort.”

So ordered, so done. The Iberian bands moved away from the walls, and one set up in a circle about it. The other three formed up on a fourth and began coming toward the legion in the open.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

Titus saw the change in disposition and smiled. Your ass is mine now, he thought as the cornifer again blew the rearward march notes. The legion followed, and this time the Iberians did too. Quickly.

“They are gaining,” Caelus reported. “Contact within ten minutes or so.”

Titus looked up. “Too soon. Let them come within five minutes, then order the double-time. Our men can handle it- those Iberians not. It will make them nice and tired for our colleagues.”

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

The chase was on. For four hilly miles the Romans dashed and walked, dashed and walked, dragging the Iberian warbands away from their besieging brethren and towards where the cohorts of the I Italica and VI Macedonica waited under their bushes and weeds. Then they finally halted, spun about, and awaited the impact of the Iberians.

Diazolo was impressed with the stamina and determination of these pesky legionaries. They kept well enough ahead of his men, and made them tired, but these were no Gallic or Germani so easily worn. These were hardened guerilla warriors, used to such easy jogs. His men were barely warmed up, and knew the Romani must be worn to so suddenly turn for battle. Or foolish. Either way, they would not live out the day.

“Now, men of Iberia,” he shouted, “We end this! Attack!”

The attack was everything the young general imagined. A rousing warcry, then an avalanche of Iberian might upon a pitifully weak Roman oppressor. There was no room for tactics in this battle- it was simply a tidal wave of warriors swarming over and around a hated foe-

-until two legions burst out of the southern scrub and began carving deeply into his army. He barely had time to alert his nearest companions before a Roman spear took his horse down. He rolled loose, but his sword was pinned beneath the dying beast. He pretended to be the same, and in this manner Diazolo the Crafty managed to stay alive as the Romans passed his unmoving body to kill those still active. Once they passed, he used his dagger to cut his sword free from his body, and scamper back up the road towards Geralo and his last warband.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

Titus was hailed Imperator on the field as the last Iberian knelt in submission. It had been a bloody battle, but Roman cunning and surprise had won the day. Losses were heavy on both sides, but to Titus, a price worth paying if it broke the back of the rebellion. He let his other legates handle the processing of the prisoners and dealing with the dead while he took the IV Pia Fidelia back towards the III Gallica.

He needn’t have bothered. Lucius Aemilius and the V Germanica were marching toward him, escorting a thousand broken Iberians and one defiant general.

“Hail, Titus!” Lucius called. “Look what we found crawling away. I think this is Diazolo, the general and rebel king himself.”

“He will look good in my triumph,” Titus admitted proudly. He noticed the sun dipping below the hills, and thoughts of triumph and victories faded as military pragmatism took over. “Legates! Pitch camp here for the night. One in four awake during the night in case of more rebels, Our prisoners securely bound. If there is time between camp completion and darkness, I want our dead brought in closer to the walls. If not, have the cavalry patrol the battlefield. I want no Roman soldier to be desecrated by hostiles.”

Two hours later the camps were ready. Four turmae of cavalry took up a patrol around the camps and battlefield, to be relieved every four hours. Satisfied with his security, Titus retired to his tent where Lucius and the prisoner awaited.

“Diazolo himself” Titus muttered as he examined his prisoner. ”This rebellion really is over.”

“Never!” sneered Diazolo. The shock of his utter defeat had worn off, bringing the fire and spark back into him. “There will always be rebellions here! Our people will rise again to fight these oppressors who steal our children and our lands.”

“Then we shall crush them again,” Titus Caesar replied evenly. “You can never win, only die.”

“No, no, no!” Aemilius cried. “Titus, you are thinking like a soldier again!”

“It works,” the general stated flatly.

Aemilius smacked his palm against his forehead in disbelief. ”It does not work- not always, and certainly not now. You need to have peace here, to concentrate your energies elsewhere. Think like your brother, for once. Make peace!”

Titus furled his eyebrows together in thought. Then he shook his head. “I can only see extermination as a means to ending this problem, Lucius. If the rebellion will never end while the Iberians are alive, then they must die for there to be peace. I will need more troops and a lot more time.”

“That’s military again, old friend,” Lucius said exasperated. “Try this. You take these four thousand prisoners, march them to Gaul, form them up as auxilia milliari, make Diazolo here a commander of them, then move them to the Dacian border. Leave two legions here as before, status quo antebellum, which takes care of the military side. And then, here is where your brother would excel while you stagnate, ask Diazolo why he was willing to risk crucifixion for himself and his people instead of filing a complaint with the governor in Tarraco!”

That struck a nerve. Caesar turned to the prisoner. “Why did you revolt, anyway?” he asked cautiously. “One day everything is fine and Hispana a terrific place to be stationed, then the next season all is in flames.”

Diazolo stared at the son of Caesar in awestruck fury. “You do not know, you who are son of Caesar Magnus? You who command the great Senatus, who issued a license to slavers to take Iberian children to be sold to Syria? You who gave settlers from Italia free reign to choose which of our lands they can use to disperse their own upon, and drive out our people? You do not know this, yet you come and crush us?” He spit upon the caligula of the general. “You take our children and lands, and expect us not to rebel? How foolish are you, Roman?”

Aemilius made to answer, but Titus cut him off. He stepped up to the Iberian and looked him straight in the eyes. He saw no deception or untruth lying within, then backed away.

“Truly, Iberian, I know not of what you speak. There has been talk of settling colonies here, but only upon land which is not in use, or between villages that have enough. And slavery? Slaves are gained through military action, as here today with you, or children of slaves, or by those selling themselves into slavery to settle debts. Actively seeking freeborns from our provinces to enslave? That is against Roman law! Not even my father could do that and get away with it.”

“But is was done, son of a slaver,” Diazolo spat. “I have heard it from the lips of a senator myself. Iberians are to be treated as foreigners, and may be enslaved as such. Those were the exact words, burned into my memory by the rising flames of hatred I felt at that moment!”

“I know little of law, I admit,” Titus replied coldly, “but I know the laws concerning slavery, the army, and booty very well. There is no such law.”

“Nor can there be such a law,” Aemilius added. “Our empire is made of many provinces, many peoples. Isolate one such and allow slavers to cull among them, and all will think that they are next. Rebellions everywhere- and with good reason. And then no Empire. No, Prince Diazolo, there can be no such law. Passing it would destroy ourselves.”

“Then this man, he lied?”

“It happens,” Aemilius admitted. “So now what?”

“Send this man and the others to Gaul as you said,” Titus ordered. Then he added magnanimously, “I will forego a triumph.”

“You can do better, Titus Caesar. Make him a quaestor, or even the governor of the province,” said Aemilius Calenus as if talking to a child. “Let him see for himself that there was no plot of which he speaks. That will go a longer way to bringing peace.”

“Give him the province?” Titus roared in disapproval. “He bore arms against Rome!”

“There you go with that military thinking again, Titus,” Aemilius roared back. Enough was enough. Titus needed the lesson drilled into him or he would die a lonely and broken man well before his time, depending on how fast Decimus moved. From what he had seen already, that would be damned fast. “He bore arms against an oppressor determined to destroy his people. You would do the same, as would I. But there was no oppressor. Somebody made it up. Give the rebels amnesty, and give Diazolo here some power, and you will see that rather quickly there is no more rebellion in Hispana.”

“That’s political thinking, aye?” asked the general. Both the Iberian and the legate nodded.

“How could I trust him?” Titus asked.

“I will mingle my blood with yours, Titus Caesar,” the Iberian replied earnestly. “That will make me your brother. We Iberians, we are strong on family. That is why we rebel- to protect our families. We know to fight the legions is to invite death, but we do it anyway- for our families. I would never betray my own blood. The only reason you caught me was because I was avenging my cousin, fallen before your little fort.”

“He speaks true, my friend,” Lucius Calenus said with an approving nod. “Once he mingles blood with a man, the Iberian treats that man as if family. It is a matter of honor, stronger than vows given before Jupiter Optimus Maximus himself. Unbreakable. At the same time, you cannot lie to him, either. The bonds go both ways.”

“I am too much a soldier to be able to lie well,” Titus said with a nod. “The truth is what a commander needs, not fabrications. Thus I always speak as true as possible.” He suddenly turned sharply toward his life-long friend. ”How do you know so much of this culture crap, Lucius? Politics I know you thrive upon, but blood-rituals of provincials?”

Calenus smiled broadly. “Knowing your enemy is a part of tactics, old friend. Knowing their customs is part of politics.”

Titus drew his dagger and slashed the ropes binding the Iberian. He followed this with a slash upon his open palm, and handed the dagger to Diazolo.

The Iberian shook off the severed bonds and took the dagger. He thought for a moment of plunging it into the heart of his foe- he would never get this chance again, being armed with the Roman commander standing unprepared before him- but rejected the idea when he looked into the clear eyes of Titus Julius Caesar. There was absolutely no guile in those placid eyes. A warrior and a general yes, but not a hint of subterfuge or falsehood. One slash and a press and there would be peace. One stab and his country would burn. The choice was ridiculously easy. He slashed his own palm and pressed it against the open hand of the Roman.

“I now serve Rome,” the Iberian said solemnly. “I shall serve my brother, to the best of my ability.”

Titus looked to his friend. Such a simple gesture, this mingling of blood. Is this more political crud? He began to have doubts. “And I can trust this?”

Calenus nodded as solemnly as the Iberian. “You can now.”

“But this man bore arms, he was a soldier against Rome.”

“Not any more,” Calenus affirmed. He pointed sharply to the bleeding palms of the two men. “Words mean little. But this, my friend, blood. Blood you can trust. He is no longer an enemy. His hesitation before slashing his palm, Titus, that was him weighing this heavy decision. He did not take it lightly, nor should you. He was once a rebel prince, true, but he now serves you, and Rome.”

Titus nodded. “I too serve Rome. And now I shall bring peace to my blood-brother’s land. Lucius Aemilius Calenus, I empower you to assume duties as governor of Hispana, vice the dead Fufius. Diazolo, you are his deputy. I command you both to bring peace to this land.”

The Iberian nodded, the sincerity dripping from the Roman’s face convinced him he had made the proper choice for his own people.

Lucius too was relieved, and elated. One battle, two really, and the Iberian problem was solved. He would have a rich province to govern, but it would require a lot of work to bring it back into the fold. His future was set, but what of Titus, a veteran general but babe in the woods when it came to dealing with the masses? What would happen to him? He had to ask.

“And you?”

“I shall march my three legions back to North Italia,” Titus muttered. He thought for a moment, then changed his mind. “Scratch that. Diazolo, you shall be the new governor. Bring me peace! And you, Lucius Aemilius, will come with me. I shall need your political wisdom if I am to have any chance at all at winning over Rome and the Senate.”

Calenus turned to Diazolo. “He’s a slow learner when it comes to things non-military, but he is true to Rome, and his heart. A better friend you cannot have.”

“Or a brother,” Diazolo answered in agreement.

(Since Vampiric Cannibal disappeared after writing this, I post it for him, in his honor: )

Once upon a time, there was a goat. It was docile goat, with well groomed fur. And then one day, it's handler put a carrot in front of it. The goat veered forward, and was promptly decapitated.

Aulus Julius Caesar, with his friends, supporters and that simpleton, his younger cousin Lucius, looked on at the sacrifice. It was being offered to Sulla Felix, a ancestor of Aulus, his friend Lucius Cornelius Sulla Magnus, and Sulla Magnus's father the aging Faustus Cornelius.

Magnus was much the same age as Aulus, similarly skilled, and had fought with distinction in Iberia, personally killing three rebellious chieftains. And had tracked down the senator who had provoked the revolt. But, he was no friend to the deceased Imperator. He was the leader of the young and unimpeachably noble faction of Pro-Republicans. With him were approximately a third of the new generation of Noblemen, and half the able Nobles at that. The Cornelii had not prospered in centuries, but Sulla Magnus hoped to change that. Along with the government.

Aulus spoke “There are three contenders for the next Imperator. My father, my uncle, and myself. One man can speak well, one can fight well, yet both are old. Let them continue as they do at the moment. Let them speak and fight for Rome's continued prosperity. And let them do it in a state that doesn't have an Imperator. The title itself is a vulgar display of power. Yet, Rome needs no false godheads to rule it. It needs but a able, young, flexible person to guide it. A Princeps, not a Imperial family, rued by corruption. Quintus Julius was different, he had the skill with which to rule, and the harshness, but I, nor any of the other contenders seem nearly as strong in comparison. Would you agree to that, Rolf?”

Rolf was present, with several deputies, glowering at these togate fools, but the glowing praise of his master convinced him to nod as if agreeing with the young, skilled, well spoken man who was apparently trying to prune the family tree until he is the main branch.

“Daciacus and Caesar Filius are not ruling material. They are not well rounded enough,in the subjects of both politics and war and this alone excludes them from being this 'first citizen', the guider of Rome, the Princeps. Would you agree to that, my distant cousin Rutilius Lupus, and you as well, Ulpius, both Tribunes of the People?”

Rutilius and Ulpius were friends, standing together at this meeting of practically all the important men of Rome, held in Aulus's rather spacious meeting hall in his house. Rutilius and Ulpius, rounded men of politics of war, agreed. They liked where this was going. Consulships would be possible without sucking up to an old Imperator.

“Who here would disagree” Aulus was going in for the win “ that I am able to guide this Empire as it's Princeps? As a man of honour, not needing a bodyguard hidden in Gaul, fresh fighting a war which I created,” Family be damned, when I need them to prove a point, Aulus thought. The unsubtle jab had gone very much noticed. And approved of, as mainly neutrals and supporters were here.
And that damn wretch Tigellanius, but he was important enough to come, sadly.

“Why should an old man run Rome, again? Two states of succession in ten years is too many!” Unarguable logic works “ Vitellius, Quintus's old drinking buddy, would your father want either of his sons to succeed him?

“No, not at all” Came the reply, along with a smell of a expensive wine. Vitellius wasn't liked by his drinking buddies sons. The feeling was mutual.

“Who here, then disagrees with me? That man, or men, should speak now!”

Nobody spoke, but young Fabius, young man of the law courts, and teacher of tact to the roaring Imperial hopeful, shook his head. It had taken a lot to calm Aulus down after Aemilianus had suggested he was too young to try and become 'Princeps' of a new Rome. And Aulus was still angry.

“Very well, then. I count on your support, and most of you will be smart enough to give it to me.” A awkward silence followed. Broken by Vitellius, who had dropped some wine on the floor, and, drunk, started sobbing. Whether due to the implied threat or the wine wastage, no one really knew.

------------------------------------------------------------------ ----------------

“He did WHAAAAT?” Decimus was alerted of his son's speech in the morning. And promptly turned angrier than his son had been the previous day.

“What could have possessed him to do that” He roared at his wife. Who had been there, but deemed it could wait until morning.

“He intends to overthrow Rome as we know it” He sobbed hysterically. For quite some time.

Then Decimus decided on a course of action. He sat down and started to write a letter to his brother.

------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------

Who, at the time, was cleaning up a bunch of irritating Celts and raiding wild Germans,around the Alps. Who were meant to have been Romanised centuries ago. Which confused Titus very much. Until he decided to just kill them.

"Titus" said Calenus " We have your bases covered, with a backup army in Spain. We don't need to remain here any longer."

"I like to be thorough, as you know. I'll stay here to the end."

"You shouldn't. Let a legate clean up here. The longer you delay, the less your chances are to become Imperator. Decimus, his son, the damn annoying so-called 'Republican' sods, who care only for money and a Consulship, are all plotting against you. You must get back to Rome at once. The local barbarians don't need your attention. "

Which hit home at Titus.

"Very well. If that is the case, we shall ride for Rome immediately. One of the other legates can organize the march, surely."

"We need your army with us, you need to understand."

"No, I am Heir Apparent, Imperator now with my father's death. It doesn't matter."

"But it does. You will be outspoken by Decimus and Aulus. It will go badly."

"Still..."

The argument went around in circles. It wasn't going anywhere fast.

---- ----- ---- ----

[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 11-19-2009 @ 10:53 AM).]

CHAPTER V
REBELLION

In the end, Titus’s time-honored friendship with Calenus decided him. Calenus was right, after all; in a confused sort of way, politics made some sort of sense. So, together with their army from Spain and what local allied mercenaries – foederati – they could gather from friendly Gallic tribes, the two of them abandoned the sub-provinces of the Alpine region and force-marched through the mountains to the small but growing industrial city of Turinum, on the Western fringes of the key province of Gallia Cisalpina. The army was tired and hungry. Their supply chain back to Spain was not secure, and Titus couldn’t spare the troops to man it. He had only twenty thousand men; twenty thousand men to take on the World’s greatest superpower. He had not the money to hand to pay them; but his main concern was that they would go hungry. The supply base of the Northern Reserve – Titus’s army - Decimus, it seemed, had diverted for his own ends. There wasn’t much that Decimus didn’t notice.

Calenus again had to argue with him for some time before he could convince him not to plunder and loot every single little village they came across on the way to Turinum in order to feed them. There was no reason, he said, to turn potential allies into enemies. Titus argued that it would do no good if the army ran so short of supplies they started deserting in droves; the men had to be paid, and more importantly they had to be fed; but the situation had not yet reached the point where the men began deserting, and in the end, as was becoming the norm for disputes between them concerning politics, Calenus had his way. Luckily, the people of Turinum threw open the gates of their city as soon as they saw Titus’s army approaching; they knew full well that it was more than twenty years since an army commanded by Titus in person had failed to take any fortress. Better still, imperial taxes gathered from all the western half of Cisalpine Gaul were banked at Turinum; Titus was able to take out a small “loan” to pay his men.

Basing himself therefore at Turinum, Titus – or rather, Calenus, acting on Titus’s behalf and in his name – quickly set about disaffecting the cities of Cisalpine Gaul from Decimus. The first city to accept was Aquileia, which set a strong precedent, and pretty soon, to go with Transalpine Gaul and the Spanish provinces, most of the Western half of the province declared for Titus, and hailed him Imperator. But Mediolanum, capital of the province, granary, fortress and home to over fifty thousand, refused all diplomatic advances. Decimus’s on-the-spot agents were already hard at work.

It was then that Titus got his brother’s letter.

Decimus Julius Caesar to Titus Julius Caesar, greetings!

Congratulations on your victory in Spain. I shall fully support you if you wish to stand for a triumph.

However, please remember that a proconsul is not allowed to leave his province without authorisation from the Senate. I am prepared to stretch a point for you, my brother, but beware, if you cross the Alps with an army there will be little I can do for you. I understand that you are upset that you missed our divine father’s funeral, but it really could not wait. Do not react rashly.

cura ut semper valeas,

frater.

“What rubbish!” chortled Calenus, scrumpling up the piece of papyrus. “Anyway, he’s too late.” He threw it into the fire.

Titus watched it burn. “alea iacta est. It has begun.”


* * * * * * * * * *

Their employer, on the other hand, was living the high-life in Rome. Having not yet developed the paranoia or relative insanity of some earlier emperors such as Tiberius, nonetheless power had gone to his head somewhat, and he was living a life of extravagant luxury. His judgement was somewhat clouded.

His first step when reports arrived that his brother had crossed the Alps and entered Italy was to dispatch a second message, hard on the heels of the first, ordering him not to enter Italy or he would be forced, however involuntarily, to take action. Then, exploiting his position as consul, he dug up an old edict reinforcing the old republican powers of the consul in order to raise an emergency levy of four legions from Rome and Latium, and six thousand cavalry. The troops were hurriedly trained and armed, as the menace that was Titus loomed over Italy like a stormcloud.

Another of the first things Decimus was raise charges of treason against Aulus. Somehow however, Aulus got wind of what he was up to, and escaped to Campania, where he began stirring up trouble at Neapolis and Puteoli. He was found guilty in absentia – Decimus was presiding judge, of course – and a bounty for any information leading to his capture was set at three thousand. Decimus knew a rival when he saw one.

Then he had to deal with the subject of his father’s will. He had to read it aloud in the forum from the rostra before even he actually knew who was named as heir. The crowd that showed up was enormous; those who couldn’t fit into the square lined the streets around it. There must have been some hundred thousand people – a good half of the free fit male population of Rome – crammed into the Forum Romanum that day. The noise was horrendous, but everyone feel eerily silent when Decimus mounted the rostra and broke the seal.

“Fellow citizens of Rome,” began Decimus. He left a pause between every phrase, following standard rhetorical practise and precedents set by famous orators like Cicero and Quintilian. He continued.

“I come before you today not as a consul. I do not come before you – even as a senator, nor yet a nobleman. Citizens of Rome, I come before you as a private citizen who has lost someone dear.”

He forced a tear out of one eye. Only those who were nearest would see it, but news of it would travel wide and fast and make a good impression.

“Forgive me; many of you may also have lost a parent before – but to me this experience is a new one.”

Every word was measured and calculated to stir up favor, even pity, from the crowd. But there was nothing real at all behind his words; it was all just a game, just a show for the masses.

“Here in my hands I have my father’s last will and testament. I –“ his voice broke, realistically. “I confirm that it is signed with his private seal, and has not been broken.” That had been extremely frustrating, trying to read the will without breaking the seal. He had tried, of course; he had hired the best men in Rome to help him. But the signet ring was not to be found, and they could not risk a forgery - if word of that got out it would almost certainly be the end of Decimus – so they had been left with no option but to try and read the will without breaking the seal. Obviously, the priority had been to preserve the seal intact; they had not managed to open the will while doing so.

Decimus broke the seal and opened the box. Oh, for weeks he had longed for this; to finally find out what was in his father’s will. But here, in front of all these witnesses, one mistake could be fatal. He took the envelope out of the box, which he passed to an attendant, broke the same seal a second time, and rapidly scanned the single sheet of papyrus. He frowned, trying to read the first line.

“The last will and testament of Quintus Iulius Caesar Magnus, Emperor of Rome.” He frowned again, trying to decipher the writing. But once again he found he could not. In the end he was forced to admit aloud: “I can’t read it.”

The crowd broke into numerous feverish private conversations. An attendant hurried up and attempted to aid the consul; then he beckoned to another who also ran up. Neither of them could read the answer. It had been scratched and smeared – by, Decimus realised, the very tools he had been using to try and find out what it said. Shame rose within him like bile, but he swallowed it down. The public had to understand that it had nothing to do with him. He must continue to appear calm.

A clerk was summoned, and the pontifex maximus. The people in the forum remained completely silent all the time they waited. But in the end, Decimus had to give up; the name of the heir to the Roman empire was utterly illegible. Decimus was forced to make his attempt.

“The name of the heir to the Divine Emperor Quintus Caesar is illegible. So is much of the paragraph. As well as I can make it, it reads: “I, Quintus Julius Caesar Magnus, do name as sole heir (something illegible). And my titles, and the rest of my estate, I leave to him also. (Something illegible) strongest, able to (something illegible) and for the benefit of the Roman (something illegible, probably “senate”) and People, and for the City of Rome.”

The crowd was not convinced, but they remained silent as their consul read out the rest of the will. It meant nothing to Decimus, however; it was irrelevant. They would never know who his father had intended to succeed him; never.

He left five hundred aurei to each of his sons and Aulus, one hundred to every ex-consul, and fifty to every senator. Then he left two sesterces to every Roman citizen in the Empire – that raised a cheer. Had Decimus been conscious of what he was reading, he realised that that would almost certainly entirely empty the state treasury – there were maybe fifteen million Roman citizens in the Empire. After that, there were a number of other personal gifts to family and friends; Rolf earned three aurei for every year of his service, and, if he wanted it, his honorary discharge. The wording was precise, and clear; the only thing that could be disputed was the first line. Who would rule the empire now?

It was later that day that reports came flooding in that the North was in uproar.

* * * * * * * * * *

Rebellion had been in the works in the North for months.

Long before Tristan and Eyjolf had set off South, their tribes had been planning. And their tribes had had the support of other neighboring tribes. And right under the noses of the unsuspecting Roman governors, they had simply been waiting; waiting for the opportunity they needed.

Ever since the Emperor had first developed his cancer, they had been waiting for him to die.

* * * * * * * * * *

Gnaeus Caesennius Plautius, propraetor of Lesser Britain, broke camp at dawn and marched the last few miles with his army – the legion from Deva, the famous XX Valeria Victrix, and about twenty auxiliary regiments which were to hand – to the Menai Straits before midday. He had some fifteen thousand men, including two thousand cavalry. The Island of Mona – Ynys Mon, the locals called it – had been in revolt for two years, defying two Roman armies sent against it by each of Plautius’s predecessors. Now Plautius, envisaging victories like those of his namesake, and that of Suetonius Paulinus on this very spot, was determined to earn himself the glory he felt he deserved. Little did he expect the second part of Paulinus’s story; the uprising in his rear.

He formed up his army facing across the strait, planning to send them across on rafts he had prepared for the purpose. The enemy faced him from the safety of their Island.

The enemy lined the shore in a dense armed mass. Among them were black-robed women, like the Furies, with dishevelled hair, brandishing torches. Close by stood the Druids, raising their hands to heaven and screaming dreadful curses.

Then the hosts of Cambria materialised out of nowhere; forty thousand warriors of the Silures, Ordovices, Demetae and Deceangli. Blinded by his quest for glory, Plautius had neglected to scout out the terrain, believing the enemy to be on their island. Now he was surrounded.

Cavalry and infantry seethed over a wide area in unprecedented numbers.

Now, on one side were the howling Druids, and on the other were the silent Cambrians, who had appeared out of nowhere. It was a terrifying sight. Plautius was caught between hammer an anvil.

Then the Cambrians raised a war-cry. This was even more terrifying than their silence, as the majority of the Roman force had not even known they were there. Many broke ranks and fled at once: green, local auxiliary units. How fickle are the fortunes of war! The Romans, so sure of victory a mere instant before, were now scared out of their wits. Years of peace; in that time they had forgotten what it was like to be standing in the middle of a battlefield, your life hanging by a thread.

Hearing the war-cry, the Druids raised another of their own, which rapidly turned into a steady chant: We will hang their heads from our longhall ceilings, and their women will be our bed-slaves forever! To the Romans, not understanding the words but quite able to guess the meaning, it was even more terrifying. An entire auxiliary cohort broke ranks and fled. Many of the Druids began to fetch rafts and boats, and others began to swim across. The Cambrians charged the unprotected Roman rear.

Plautius was killed as he stood, rooted in shock. The cavalry, which attempted a flank attack, was routed by reinforcing chariots previously hidden in the trees. The legionaries eventually formed themselves into a square facing all ways, after all the auxilia had fled, but the Britons withdrew and showered them with missiles from a distance. They formed their famous testudo to counter this, and were ridden down by a charge of cavalry and chariots. The legion – the proud XX Valeria Victrix, whose history was as heroic as they come, but had not seen battle for so long - broke and fled, abandoning their standard to the enemy.

And so no Roman saw Tristan Ap Caradoc, chieftain of the Silures, dismount from his chariot and fight the aquilifer hand-to-hand, surrounded by a ring of silent Briton spectators. And no Roman saw the brave and desperate aquilifer fighting to the death before his standard, crying out over and over again that he was a Roman citizen. And no Roman saw Tristan at last disarm his opponent and sweep his head clean off with one mighty blow.

It was let to the Britons, who bowed their heads solemnly to the fallen foe, to remember the bravery of an enemy.

It was a glorious victory, comparable with bygone triumphs.

* * * * * * * * * *

The victorious Britons set about burning and looting the two – now empty – nearby Roman fortress-towns of Canovium and Segontium. The Roman and Romanised women of the towns were raped and then whipped, before being given as slaves to warriors who had distinguished themselves in the battle; the men were slain; the small children were adopted, and the older ones enslaved. The more Briton or pro-Briton inhabitants all joined the rebellion, and all the West of Cambria thus fell into rebel hands. And word spread that the next target of the rebels was the great stronghold of Isca Silurium, camp of the renowned and experienced Legio II Augusta Invicta, away to the South…

* * * * * * * * * *

Sextus Herennius Caelianus was on night-time sentry-duty at the auxiliary fortress of Castra Luminara on the River Elbe. It was the station of an entire cohors milliaria equitata – a double-strength cohort with a cavalry complement. It was about to be annihilated.

Sextus knew nothing of the rebellion until a light-footed German who had scaled the rampart unnoticed slit his throat with a knife. With a muffled gurgle, Sextus collapsed. The German ended his life with a well-placed axe-blow to the head.

Almost at the same moment, two dozen other sentries met the same fate. Just like that, the rebels had captured one wall of the fortress. They quickly took the other three the same way. Then they opened the gate – only one gate, the West gate; they didn’t want any of their enemies to get away – and two and a half thousand Cherusci warriors entered the sleeping camp.

Almost every Roman was killed instantly, but some of the cavalry, among them the prefect, forced an exit through the South gate, and a centurion rallied some hundred and twenty men in the camp marketplace and formed them, like their fellows at the Menai Straits, into a square facing all ways.

“There is no escape!” roared the centurion. “We are all going to die! Now fight to the death! Show no mercy! Let us show these filthy barbarians how true Romans may die!”

Many of the men had not even had time to don their armor, but had simply grabbed sword, shield and spear; most were still bleary-eyed with sleep. But not one of them tried to flee. Every last one of them fell facing the enemy.

Before long, the centurion stood at the centre of the marketplace with six other men; all that remained. The Germans were closing in around them.

“Death and glory! Do not fear the foe, for those that die in battle awaits a better life in the Realms of Mithras! Charge!”

The tiny orb rapidly switched to wedge, and charged the ranks of the encircling Germans. Surprised and in awe of their bravery, the Germans were caught off-guard. The centurion and three others made it through.

“Death and glory! We may yet see another dawn!” Euphoria and adrenaline were pumping through the centurion’s body; he no longer cared if he made sense. “To the West gate, men! On the double!”

They were nearly there when a company of cavalry rode around the corner and cut them off.

The centurion looked around him. Behind him were axes and spears; before him were lances and horses. To left and right were his fellows in arms; three extremely brave and enduring soldiers of the rank and file. He knew they were with him to the last. He was about to order one last charge when the captain of the cavalry dismounted and removed his helm.

The captain came within two paces of the centurion and inclined his red head. Had the centurion known it, this gesture to an enemy on the battlefield was of immense significance.

“You have fought hard and bravely,” said the captain, fixing the centurion with his hunter’s gaze. “Might I have the honor of knowing your name?”

“You can have the honor of my swordpoint in your face if you don’t back off,” growled the centurion, “but yes. My name is Publius Cornelius Turpilianus.”

“Publius Cornelius Turpilianus, Eyjolf Hjordsson, chieftain of the Cherusci, at your service. For your bravery, you and your men are free to go with your lives – if you will take a message to Wurzburg for me. I will trust your word.”

“Wurzburg?”

“Vorteburgis.”

His three companions looked hopeful, but Turpilianus sneered.

“I do not need your permission to get me out of here.”

He lunged. Eyjolf dodged – almost. He hit the ground, a red streak running from ear to chin.

“Go!” barked Turplianus. His tiny band charged the stationary horsemen at the gate, and that would have been the end of them, but Eyjolf whistled and made frantic gestures to his men. They were to let Turpilianus go.

* * * * * * * * * *

All along the Elbe that night, similar scenes were occurring at numerous other fortresses. The rebels avoided the big legionary fortresses, making instead for the smaller, weaker auxiliary fortresses – they were too few, and too spread out, to take on five thousand of Rome’s finest at a time. That night saw the almost-total annihilation of the Roman army’s entire auxiliary complement in Germania; some thirty thousand men.

* * * * * * * * * *

Already, central and Eastern Germania Interflumina and most of Western Britannia had risen in revolt. Nearly fifty thousand Romans were dead. The panic would be great when reports started flooding into Rome – and the Great Rebellion had just begun.

* * * * * * * * * *

In the end, Turpilianus and his three companions did go to Vorteburgis, hard on the heels of their prefect; the cavalry that had escaped the massacre at the Menai Straits went straight to Eburacum, which had recently eclipsed Londinium as most important city in size and importance on the island; and word spread rapidly South, down Rome’s famous network of roads, to the capital, at astonishing speed…

[This message has been edited by Edorix (edited 11-19-2009 @ 11:03 AM).]

A Storm brews in the East

by Andalus


While clouds were raging over the western skies, the eastern provinces continued to bathe in the warm sun, still unaware of their lord and master’s demise. However, the swelling red sail that was approaching the sunny Alexandrian harbour would soon change all that.

Tribune Tertius Aelianius Priscus gazed up at the great lighthouse of Alexandria that guided ships to its safe berths, standing on deck as the Roman warship passed beneath it. It was a majestic, yet ostentatious construction, full of all the self-importance that defined this city. Full of arrogant scholars, and plagued by the constant squabbles between the Greeks and the Jews that made up the majority of the population. It was about as Egyptian as it was Roman, and it was Roman in name and government only. But Aelianus cared little for the trivialities of the Alexandrians, child’s play to the decadence and scheming of Rome. He would soon be away from this place and en route to his new post in Palestina, known as a much more problematic province, yet in these troubled times that it seemed were coming after the death of Quintus, he doubted that even Italia would be any more dangerous.

The meeting at the governor’s palace was a simple affair, and soon over. The governor, an aging equestrian who barely seemed master of his own senses these days, sat and listened to the report of the Emperor’s death with little apparent care, and Aelianius would have said he was oblivious to the whole proceeding but for the token comments of politic that he carted out in response to each item and command. Most importantly of these was that the grain supply must be maintained no matter what. Rome was in enough political turmoil as it was; a famine would be most untimely. The governor did not look the type to try and throw the weight of his prestigious position around now. After all, he was really but a denizen, a steward running an Imperial estate, and that was a delicate status, especially in such uncertain times.

His business in Egypt complete, Aelianus returned to his ship. He might have liked to go and see the ancient wonders of that country, as his new duties in Jerusalem did not officially begin for another fortnight, yet his temporary employment as messenger boy beckoned him onwards. The pyramids and temples had lasted centuries already – they could wait for another time.

*****

Standing on the balcony of his official residence, Publius Petellius Vulpius, the governor of Palestina province, watched the small party of red cloaked men striding towards his gate. Their leader had removed his helmet and carried it cupped in his left arm, revealing his familiar features. His face was still keen, not yet lined by the trials of his age, and tanned by his years in the Italian sun, all topped by tousled black hair, or as tousled as it could be while remaining just a little under the regulation length. Vulpius smiled as he recognised his old friend Aels, with a twinge of amicable jealousy that his compatriot’s figure had not lent itself to the same portliness he himself had let have its way during his time here in Jerusalem.

Vulpius knew why Aelianius was here, or rather, why he was here prior to the commencement of his tour of duty in the province. The official scarlet messenger may have only just arrived, but Vulpius had received word almost a week ago from his own creatures, who had sent word via a fast horse through Asia Minor. When he had left Rome he had given specific orders that he be immediately notified of any major event in the city, so as not to be excluded from the politics and goings on while he dwelt in these foreign climes. This particular morsel of more than average gossip was news he had been awaiting for some time.

A hand rapped upon the wooden door to his chamber, and Vulpius turned and headed back inside. He let them knock one more time, and then called to enter. The hand belonged to his steward, Spurius.

“Tertius Aelianius Priscus, sire.”
“I know who he is; let him in and clear off.”

The servant sighed and left the room once more. His presence was soon replaced.

“Salve, Aelianius, my friend.” Vulpius greeted his guest with an embrace. “It has been too long,” he declared.

“Surely it cannot be much more than a year or two?” Aelianius laughed, “Don’t tell me you are getting sentimental!” Vulpius said nothing, merely smiling, and lowering his frame onto a seat.

“Now then, surely you are not here only to exchange pleasantries?” he asked. Aelianius thought the governor’s voice held an unusual tone of expectation, as if he were asking a different question entirely.

“Alas, no. I bring grave news. The Emperor’s divine soul has now departed from this world.” Vulpius did not react, and Aelianius looked at him quizzically. Then he realised. “You already know this, don’t you?”

“I do indeed,” Vulpius replied, standing up “and that is why I shall now be returning to Rome.”

“What?! Surely you do not mean to compete for the purple yourself? You would never succeed.”

“That I know well. But with the turmoil that always springs up after such events, it is wise to ingratiate oneself with the eventual victor. And to ensure that the one you back crosses the line first. I am returning, Aelianius, because when the dust settles, I want a robe still on my back.”

“But you cannot return. Not without Imperial permission.”

Vulpius laughed sarcastically. “And who is going to give me that consent? Shall I send missives to Tibeius’ freshly laid tomb to beg?” He shook his head. “No one will pay the slightest bit of notice. My term here ends in little more than a month, and at the end of that time I shall enter Rome herself. Until then I shall remain in my villa outside the City, directing my affairs from there. As long as I don’t cross the threshold of Rome until the due time, no one can do anything about it. Rules aren’t made to broken, my friend, they are made to be exploited.” Aelianius said nothing. His friend had always been the more ambitious of the two, which was why, at thirty eight summers the pair of them, one was a governor aiming for the skies, and the other but a soldier, a pawn in the hands of greater men.

Vulpius continued, pacing across the marbled floor, his motion in contrast to the tribune’s stillness. “So who is expected to succeed Quintus? Decimus or Titus, I imagine?”

“It was undecided, when I left. The will was illegible.”

“Hm. One statesman. One general. The Empire needs both in one man. A younger man. And that man exists.”

“Decimus’ son?”

“Indeed. Aulus is a fine man these days and well suited to be emperor. But he’ll need support, if he is to take on those two. Support my coffers and name can provide. That is why I am returning. But you may be wondering,” he said, ceasing his pacing, “why I am telling you all this.”

“I presume because you want me to report you for abandoning your post.”

“Aha, no. I am telling because I know you will not. You toe the line, Aels, but you aren’t a backstabber. I could do with a dependable man like you at my side in Italy.”

Before he could continue, Aelianius realised where Vulpius was heading, and interrupted. “No,” was his blunt reply. All smiles had gone.

“No? You are under my jurisdiction here; I could easily command you to follow me.”

“My position here does not begin for two weeks, and you have no power to play me. I will not abandon my post as you are doing, nor will I betray Rome by encouraging chaos. The heat has turned your brain, Vulpius. I’ll do you the courtesy of silence, but don’t expect anything more.” With that he turned his back on the governor and left the room. He almost turned to go back, remembering the orders from Rome he carried in his hand, and then decided to leave them with Spurius. His old friend had already broken half of them anyway.

Back within, Vulpius sighed. He might have been fuming, yet he did not really care one way or another. They had always differed on many things since they grew out of boyhood. With a wry smile, he remembered how Aelianius had always attempted to sway him to his republican views, as the two young aristocrats had sat and debated. But the days of the Republic were long gone, thought Vulpius. Aelianius at least had the good sense to see that. The Emperor was Rome these days, and if all went to plan, his own hand would soon be steering that holy shoulder.

*****
As night fell over the city, other meetings were taking place, more covertly. Despite no official announcement having been made yet, news travels fast, especially when palace staff are short of a few sestertii. And mourning was at the forefront of few discussions.

Mattan was alert as he walked through the alleys of the Jewish Quarter. It was past curfew, and if he came across a patrol, they would be sure to arrest him. He looked both ways down the next street, then quickly crossed and knocked on a door on the opposite side. The wood creaked quietly as it was pulled ajar, and he was pulled in. He was not the first to arrive.

“Shalom,” he was greeted by the man who sat furthest from the door.

“Shalom, Isaac,” Mattan replied, taking a seat. “Are you planning to explain why you’ve called me here at this late and risky hour?”

“A matter that should greatly interest you, brother. I have already told the others. Caesar is dead. Struck down by a cancer.”

Mattan’s eyebrows raised. “Interesting news, indeed.”

“No doubt a punishment from the Almighty for continuing to oppress His chosen people,” added Uzzi, another member of the company.

“So He waited until Caesar was old and useless, before striking him down? Oh how mighty is our God!”

“Careful, Mattan,” warned Isaac, “that is close to blasphemy. But this death does give us a perfect opportunity. The old emperor ruled for many years. With his passing, the empire will be weakened, be certain of it. Less able to keep control of the outer provinces. Now is the perfect time to strike and win our independence.”

“Rome may be in chaos, but there is still a wilful governor remaining here.”

“Now that is where you are wrong. I have word from a reliable source that the governor plans to jump ship as soon as two days time, and return to Italy.”

“So the Romans here will be without a head...” said Mattan musing. It did seem a perfect moment to deal a blow that might win the Jews their freedom, and yet he could not help feel a certain danger in such a bold step.

“Our brethren here are all agreed that this is the Lord’s will for us. Our people will soon be roused. Are you with us? Or are you a Zealot who has lost his zeal?”

There was silence as Mattan’s brow creased, tossing thoughts back and forth. Eventually, he stood. “I am with you, Isaac,” he declared.

*****

And so it was, that as a tribune and his guard left Jerusalem’s north gate the next day, en route to Syria with one final dispatch, a Roman governor was tying up his local affairs and preparing to leave the city, a journey that could shake the empire with the waves the boat would bring as it sailed into a western harbour, waves that would mingle with those flowing from the north. And in a hundred places across the city, voices whispered and messages departed with their messengers. Under that clear sky, the traders brought out their wares as with any other day, the bright colours and hubbub of noise making no forecast of the coming storm.

The Storm Erupts.

The day after the meeting of the Jewish leaders, couriers were sent all across the province of Palestine to give out orders for the impending uprising. These couriers could easily pass through Roman sentry posts throughout the province for they had been part of the merchant convoys carrying their trade along the paved roads of the East. These merchants were friendly to the Jewish population and seethed inside with Roman hatred. They were more than happy to allow the couriers to join them in their normal journey throughout the province so to cover the couriers’ ulterior motives.

One of the reasons why the Jewish conspirators had allowed messengers to be attached with the tradesmen was that the merchants were also friendly with the Roman guards placed in the sentry posts, the forts outside Jerusalem, along the paved roads, which linked the towns and cities of this lucrative bastion. The main reason for this friendship was bribery. In the lands of the East money can allow you safe passage and with no questions asked. The Zealot leaders knew this well and by sending out their couriers with the merchants they were sure that the traders would pay the “protection” fee. With this Roman soldiers and even centurions would turn a blind eye and the Zealots marvelled at Roman greed. The sandal wearers of Rome were unaware of how much they were aiding the zealots.

Over the past few months, as the Emperor’s health declined, the Zealots made plans to deliver weapons to the outlying towns and villages, as Roman patrols had been intensifying their search for weapon caches in Jerusalem. To transport the swords, axes, armour, arrows and other contents they used the merchants to hide the weapons. By bribing known Roman guards who were eager to make some money the guards didn’t search the contents of the merchant convoys. But, while the legionaries who were making a few coins out of their posting thought the merchants were just hiding slaves or even courtesans, allowing the legionaries to make a tidy profit, it was the Zealots who would have the last laugh.

By the end of the day several couriers managed to reach their intended destination and inform the young and sometimes brazen commanders in the towns of the uprising, the objectives and also the composition of the Roman forces based in the towns of Palestine. The Zealots had indeed planned their uprising well. The Zealots owed thanks to several infiltrators in the Roman army based in the province. The governor Vulpius had wanted to try and quell the volatile province by integrating the Jewish elite and their sons into the Roman army in the East.

Although many Jews had been dispersed throughout the Empire after the last major revolt over two hundred years ago, Quintus’ ancestor, Manius Julius Lupus had allowed Jews across the empire to return to their homeland. When the decree of Hadrian banning Jews in Judea was repealed, flocks came to their native homeland. With the return of the Jews and integration to the Roman way of life Vulpius had hoped by doing this he would be able to control the city and stop its notorious rebellious discontent. He hoped he could gain recognition in Rome and maybe even get a promotion. However it would prove to have the opposite effect.

These supposed assimilated Jews who held ranks in Palestine such as centurions, optios, commander of the governor’s archers, even certain legionaries placed in the governor’s quarters were still at heart, committed Jews who along with the Zealots had waited since the fall of Jerusalem in the Judean Revolt of 69 A.D to have another crack at Rome. It was only this time that the Zealots had planned the uprising meticulously and had learned the lessons of the failed revolt, which Titus Flavius Vespasianus had quelled so famously in the siege of Jerusalem all those years ago. Now with the Emperor dead, it was the perfect time to strike at the hated Romans. Two days after the meeting between the Jewish leaders in Jerusalem, the uprising began.

The Roman presence in Judea was very small, five cohorts in Judea: with just two in Jerusalem. One of them guarded the governor’s quarter, while two cohorts patrolled the city, most notably the Jewish quarter. The other two were dispersed across Judea from Tiberias to Masaba in the form of sentry posts along the main roads and several small forts placed outside the towns west of the river Jordan that connected the Sea of Galilee to the Dead Sea. Vulpius' eyes were launched across the Eastern frontier.

Whenever an emperor died, rival kingdoms would always think that it was the perfect time to strike. This thought was reinforced when a few days after Vulpius heard of the Emperor's death the Parthians sent a reconnaissance party over the border where they were caught and promptly executed. He had been forced to send five of his best the I-V to the frontier so to keep in check Parthian encroachment. They would bolster the two legions patrolling the porous frontier: Legio III Cyrenaica and III Gallica.

These were two crack legions that would be able to smash any attempted Parthian invasion. Most of the auxiliary cavalry were also patrolling the border for Parthian cataphracts were deadly in the open desert. The cohorts from the VI up to X, his weakest cohorts were either manning the forts and posts, west of the River Jordan in Samaria, or in Jerusalem. But Vulpius felt if any attack did come it would be from the Eastern frontier. But little did he know that in Judea, Jewish vengeance had been unleashed.

From Tiberias off the Sea of Galilee to Masaba near the Dead Sea men of the Zealots collected their weapons throughout Judea and in the dead of night launched themselves in the dead of night upon sentry posts, forts, towns and villages. All over the small sentry posts and forts in the sands of Samaria the inexperienced IX and X cohorts of the XXII Deiotariana were sleeping in their posts. These sentry posts were quickly overrun with a flurry of missiles, or a hand over a surprised legionary’s mouth, while the knife simply carved through his neck.

With the sentry posts silenced the zealots moved towards the small forts dotted throughout Samaria. It was here that the infiltration came back to haunt Vulpius. Those on guard duty had volunteered to do the task for they were zealot sympathizers. They had purposefully been enlisted to the weakest cohorts so that they would not see battle and the highest accolade they would likely get was the rank of centurion if they were lucky.

Now the legionary Jews would get payback for years of persecution at the hands of sadistic centurions or snobbish tribunes. When the Roman-Jewish soldiers at the rank of optio were alone with centurions they quickly silenced them, while the legionaries on guard duty opened the doors in the fort to let in their fellow zealots. In the forts along the Samaria belt Jewish zealots overwhelmed the legionaries, centurions and four out of the five junior tribunes: the tribuni angusticlavii of the XXII Deiotariana placed along the forts in Samaria. It was a few hours later at the crack of dawn that Vulpius was woken up by the fifth tribuni, Cornelius Amulius.

“What is it, Cornelius?” he grumbled, annoyed at being woken up early. “One of the ****** resisting your charms again?” Cornelius sighed. Now wasn’t the time for jokes.

“We have bigger things to resist,” he declared. “The Jews are in revolt!” Vulpius’ joking smile turned to one of bewilderment and then anger.

“They did WHAT!” he shouted, his voicing trembling with apoplectic rage. “How? Where?” Cornelius looked at the guard and ordered him to bring in his aide de camp. After a few moments a man came in bearing a map. He laid it on the bed of the governor of Palestine. Vulpius would have laughed at this moment if the gravity of this situation weren’t so serious.

“Damn, Quintus Magnus!” he uttered. The now deceased Emperor, who in his early years of his reign passed a decree allowing the legions to be open to everyone in the empire. The law had been resisted, but Quintus' popularity across the Empire meant that it was passed. If Quintus was alive, he would have rued that decision.



“We’ve had runners come into Jerusalem all night long,” the junior officer explained. “When we first heard that most of the forts and sentry posts in Samaria had been overrun the reports were dismissed as exaggeration. But as more couriers arrived, some of them badly wounded, we knew that they spoke the truth. Now we have a better evaluation of what has happened,” Vulpius couldn’t believe what was going on. The threat was supposed to be from the Parthians out to the East, not from within his own doorstep.

“All of the sentry posts along the main roads into the towns of Judea have been overrun and torched. The three main forts have been captured as well,” he said, before pointing to the map. “Several towns: Samaria, Sychar, Joppa, Lydda, Nazareth, Tiberias and Masaba have fallen. Bethlehem has fallen as well, but the zealots have suffered heavy losses,” Cacat , muttered Vulpius. This was a bad situation indeed. Two cohorts lost, even though if they were that inexperienced.

“How could this happen?” he moaned. Cornelius fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Well there is one factor,” the officer said. “They were aided,”

“Aided?” Vulpius said curiously. “By whom?”

“Well, the couriers reported along the main forts they were aided by Jewish legionaries from the XI and X cohorts of the XXII Deiotariana,” he said. Vulpius’ eyes bulged wider than a scutum. Cornelius bumbled on. “One of the couriers was a legionary from the X cohort based along a fort in Lydda. He says that the most of the Jews in the century volunteered for guard duty upon the battlements and gates. They killed the officers of the century and signalled the zealots that the gates were open,” Vulpius then uttered language that would have made a pompous trader blush. The armouries in the fort have plentiful of weapons and even a few scorpions.

“Those zealot bastards!” he snarled. “I give them posts in the army, appease to the elites of the Jewish nobility and what to they do: revolt against Rome!” Cornelius slumped his head. Things were slowly going out of control. But Vulpius was adamant that this revolt would be nipped in the bud. He got out of bed and put on his clothes.

“Remember these orders I give to you and carry them out,” Vulpius said sternly. “Go to the barracks in the Roman quarter and find the commander of the auxiliary cavalry. They number around one hundred and twenty, good for scouting. Tell the officer in charge to move out of Jerusalem and locate the number of zealots and rebels that they have. If they encounter any heavy resistance then they are to pull back immediately. Cavalry play a vital role in the desert and I can’t waste them!” However just as Cornelius was about to leave the governor’s quarters, a soldier burst right in the room. The man looked awful, as skin was hanging off his face. Cornelius nearly gagged.

“Sire!” he mumbled, as blood dripped onto the marbled floor. “Jerusalem is ablaze!”

“Ablaze?” Vulpius spluttered in disbelief. “What in Jupiter’s name do you mean?”

“The Jewish quarter is up in arms!” the legionary cried. “A patrol conducted by a century from the VIII cohort was ambushed in the Jewish quarter. When the rest of the cohort arrived to help the harassed century they were set upon by three sides. They were everywhere, governor! On top of their houses, releasing missiles from the windows, within the flanks and rear. Two couriers were sent, but we saw them get struck down by the archers on the roofs. I managed to escape, but as you see not without cost.

There is another thing. I saw several Jewish men who were from one of the other cohorts in the XXII Deiotariana in Jewish garb. They fight for the Jews!” Things now couldn’t get any worse. The Jews had launched their revolt in the heart of Judea itself. Vulpius sighed knowing Italia would have to wait. His trip to Rome anyway had been delayed. A thought then quickly came into his head. What if the revolt was timed to coincide with my departure to Italia? Vulpius grudgingly had to accept that the Judeans had timed their attack well. If it wasn’t for his postponed trip then things could have got worse. Who knows, he may even profit from it.

“Cancel that order I gave you, Cornelius,” he replied, now getting his resolve back. “Get all available Roman forces here to immediately attack the Jews in their quarter,” He then looked towards the bloodied soldier. “How much of the city is under rebel control? Vulpius asked him.

“Almost a quarter,” came the reply. “The VIII suffered losses, but they have suffered even greater,” Vulpius nodded. Things were salvageable after all.

*****

Isaac roared arrogantly as he dispatched a Roman soldier with his sword. So far things were going well, as the plan to lure a cohort and ambush it from all sides, was coming into fruition. The main road leading into the quarter was swamped with Jews and Romans clashing into one another. Spears and missiles were being flung on either side, but for the VIII cohort they were desperately trying to hold on.

“Hold on, legionaries!” shouted a centurion, trying to rally his century. The zealots were fierce, but unlike the Jewish warriors in Samaria, they did not have armour to parry a blow from any weapon. It was easy to dispatch a zealot than a Roman soldier and it showed, as it took two Jews to die for a legionary to be killed. Mattan, who was directing missile troops from the roofs along the Jewish quarter, knew that enemy reinforcements were on the way. Mattan was well aware that Romans never die without giving a good fight. Suddenly, as he was trying to get a grasp of the situation, he saw that the legionaries at the rear not fighting shift to their right and with their pila in their hand. Mattan realised that those Romans had enough of getting pelted with missiles and wanted to exact some revenge.

“Get down!” he roared, as he ducked, eager to be out of sight of the dangerous pila. However those zealots, who were getting giddy at dispatching Romans with their arrows or javelins, didn’t heed the order. For those missile troops along the roof and windows they were quickly decimated by a crescendo of pila. Men dropped like flies off the roof, while those who were wounded screamed, the pain unbearable to them. Mattan looked up to see the deadly effect of the pila. He cursed their arrogance. If Isaac’s troops didn’t mop up the cohort, which were placed like a shield wall to ward off the surrounding zealots, then they would live to rue that day.

Uzzi, who was tasked to outflank the legionaries who were formed in a circle, felt the Romans were close to breaking point. He had to admit those large scutum were difficult to breach, but with zealot fervour and enthusiasm, they would carry the day! His contingent of nearly a thousand were to the north of the circular Roman formation, their rear facing the gate that marked the boundary of the Jewish and Roman quarter. Uzzi was determined that it was he who broke the sandal wearers.

“This is it, comrades!” he roared, raising his sword and swinging it around like a demented barbarian king. His men cheered wildly “Today we will smash Roman arrogance and show that persecution from those pigs won’t be tolerated. Now, my friends, to glory! Attack!” A great roar came across the zealots as they smashed into the legionaries and slamming into the scutum. Sword clashed, spears were thrown, and blood was split with the VIII desperately trying to hold off the Jews. While Uzzi was dreaming of being rewarded of his endeavors, he and his men did not look to their rear.

Isaac, Mattan and Uzzi had neglected to see that the gate had been broken when the Jews had tried to barricade it from the VIII cohort trying to save the ambushed century. Now as the sound of battle roared through the streets, it masked the sound of clattering hooves upon the paved road. One of the zealots at the rear heard the faint sound of a horse neighing and turned around. It was the last thing he would ever see, as the hooves of the dark horse hideously trampled him. Within moments the one hundred and twenty auxiliary cavalry, attached to the XXII Deiotariana, lowered their lances and ploughed through the rear of the zealots.

The impact was not good, as men were flung off their feet, or impaled on the long spears. One of them had been Uzzi, who had screamed in agony while being dragged and impaled before succumbing. The panicked zealots trampled their fellow men that were wounded. While the cavalry hacked at the zealots with their spatha swords, the VI and VII cohorts arrived through the gate to reinforce the struggling VIII. While the VI pushed the zealots back, the VII cohort threw their pila towards those throwing missiles on the roof and killing several Jews. Mattan was resigned to the fact that with the arrival of Roman reinforcements, the uprising in Jerusalem had failed. Enough was enough.

“Let’s get out of here,” Mattan said to the remaining men. “These fools do not know how to finish off Romans and they are paying the ultimate price.

“Where to, sir?” a bearded zealot asked. Mattan looked at him.

“Sir?” he said confusingly, at being given the title. “I’m not in charge,”

“But I saw Uzzi and Isaac slain by the Romans,” he said. “You are the only real person here that has the attributes to lead,” Mattan looked around and saw the fifteen strong group of warriors nodded in agreement. The young Jew was surprised at the admission that he could lead this revolt. But now wasn’t the time for admiring his own qualities.

“Then we head north,” he said decisively, with Mattan’ eyes transfixed at the auxiliary cavalry hacking down the fleeing Jews and the cohorts following in pursuit. “We must hurry though. Auxiliary cavalry are known for their ill discipline and eagerness to kill their enemy. Do any of you know of a secret way out of Jerusalem?”

“I do!” said a young man who had barely come of age. “There’s a sewer that leads to a small stream south of Emmaus.” Mattan then grinned.

“Then let’s go!” And with that Mattan and his men headed north.

*****

By late afternoon the Jewish quarter had been cleared of any resistance. Vulpius with his horse and staff entered the bastion of the zealots. As he looked around he saw numerous dead bodies: most of them Jewish. He rode his horse further on and surveyed the burning houses that once quartered families. The governor shook his head.

“Tut, tut, what a waste,” he said. “Roman kindness is once again violated,” A courier then ran up to him and saluted.

“Governor!” he boomed triumphantly. “The Jewish sector is cleared of all resistance! Here are the casualty reports from the three cohorts and auxiliary cavalry!” Vulpius received the tablet and with his eyes scouted out the details. He winced at the losses of the VIII: losing seven out of ten men. The auxiliary cavalry lost just twenty men, while the two cohorts only lost one out of ten men from each of their units.

Overall he had lost fewer than six hundred killed with four hundred wounded, most of them suffering light wounds. Enemy losses had totaled nearly ten thousand dead. A further two thousand had been captured. At least half of the zealot dead had been killed when they had fled. It had been a massacre that led to the streets of the Jewish sector running with blood. However Vulpius had been irked that a thousand had escaped. But Vulpius was satisfied for now, as for now the situation was temporary stabilised.

“Cornelius?” the governor barked. The junior tribune arrived.

“Yes, governor?” he said, arriving with his horse.

“Get me three runners,” he ordered. “One shall be sent to the Palmyra region to try and locate Legate Lucius Julius of the XXII Deiotariana informing him of the revolt. He is ordered to send the rest of the five cohorts of the XXII to here at once. The second runner shall go to Egypt for orders to requisition supplies and a legion to arrive here to suppress this revolt. Tell them to bring the five hundred auxiliary cavalry that are attached with the three legions in Egypt. The third runner shall be sent to Rome seeking Aulus,” Cornelius looked up.

“Decimus’ son?” he asked curiously. Vulpius saw what Cornelius was doing.

“Yes, Decimus’ son, you lard ass!” he erupted. “This is for his eyes only, so give it to a courier that you trust!” Vulpius handed the three letters to give to the runners. As Cornelius scampered towards the Roman quarter, the governor knew the region would have to be pacified.

“Now the beast has been awakened,” he muttered to himself. “He must be struck down!” Vulpius’ thoughts then turned towards the two thousand prisoners that had been take captive. They could be used as slave labour to fix up the Jewish quarter. But he had better use for them. He called a centurion who was directing legionaries.

“You called?” he replied.

“Where are the prisoners being held?” Vulpius replied.

“Down the road and one of the temples that was damaged when we were clearing out those zealots,” The officer replied, pointed down the street. Vulpius nodded.

“Kill them,” he said without any emotion. The young centurion turned his head in shock.

“Kill them all?” he spluttered. Vulpius looked towards him, his eyes burning.

“Yes!” he answered sneeringly. “Burn the temple or hack them down! Do what you think is efficient,” The centurion gulped and then quickly got back to his unit to relay the orders. Within a few moments three centuries walked down the road and headed into the temple. Vulpius smiled when hearing the faint screams, cries and begging of the prisoners being butchered and silenced.

“No-one shall abuse the generosity of Rome,” he said defiantly. “Not if it stands in the way of my progress,”

Vulpius turned his horse around and rode back to his headquarters. Although the revolt in Jerusalem had been repressed, the towns and villages of Judea were still in arms, with Vulpius well aware it would take a long time before the province would be pacified of zealots.
But if it brought him glory like it did to Vespasianus, then so be it.