Day 10 & 11

A calm breeze caressed the tanned forehead of the roman ruler as he squatted on a hill, squinting his eyes to see into the distance where a small detachment of cavalry rode towards him, Probus, Scrofa and Proclus Barbatius Eudoxius, Legate of the 4th Legion Flavia Felix, resting under the shady tree.

Barbatius, member of the senatorial class and previous tribune in the wars against the Goths, sighed and shook his head as he ruefully remarked: “The fucking sun is roasting our lads by the second. It was the right idea to halt the advance in consideration of their health or else they’d be a useless wrack once we’ve arrived to fight the savages.”

His remark was met with support by the other legates as Aurelian firmly stared at the approaching men.

His eyes widened as he identified the helmet of the rider escorted by his cavalry squadron.

Jolting from the ground, the Soldieremperor marched to his horse and quickly mounted it, not informing nor notifying his Legates at all as he rode down the hill towards the arrivals, towards the extra special arrivals. Special in the sense that the helmet didn’t belong to a roman Roman but to a traitorous gallic Roman, a supporter of the usurper in the west.

Flanked by two Praetorians in purple cloaks and dazzling helmets with white hair adorning their glory as their swords clattered against the metal boots and shin protectors, the gasps of their horses echoing through the sky, the trio pounded towards the captured Gaul.

Aurelian’s expression was grim, possible scenarios playing out inside his head.

An official declaration of war against the new regime? No, the news of Claudius’ death couldn’t have travelled so far.

An invitation to jointly repel the germanic invaders from northern Italia to protect the city both parties adored? No, Victorinus the Deceiver was way too ambitious and calculating for such an emotional task.

A proposal for an alliance with the leader of the danubian Legions? Possibly.

At least for Aurelian it was the most reasonable and realistic possibility, the desperate, treacherous attempt to ally himself with the greatest general of the rivalling faction, a move befitting Victorinus’ guile and malice.

Spotting the approaching purple mass of men, the escort slowed down to a steady trot until halting completely to allow their emperor a dust-free arrival.

Dismounting from their trained, neat and muscular steeds the Legionaries awaited their Imperator’s arrival as they eagerly saluted the man who had led them through hardships and to glory.

They hailed him …

“Ave Aurelianus Gothicus!” Shouted the soldiers as the defeater of the Goths gracefully descended to the ground, his short purple cloak unable to hide the real character of the man as the chainmail and armour beneath glistened in the sun.

Swirling up dust on each step on the arid dirt, Aurelian approached the saluting men, reciprocating their greetings before centering his attention on the individual who had denied showing any respect.

This disobedience and impudence was not well-received by Augustus who despised the usurpers in Palmyra and Gaul equally for their disloyalty to Rome and its ideals, its dream. Glaring down into the man’s eyes, Septimus, a centurion of the Praetorians stepped forward and violently kicked into the messenger’s kneecap, buckling the man to the ground until he knelt before the righteous emperor.

The latter looked down on the traitor and spoke in utter disgust: “Do you bring news of your craven invasion of Hispania, Gaul? Or does your wicked heathen leader wish to surrender?” Though Victorinus had declared his allegiance to the traditional Gods instead of the rapidly soaring faiths in both realms, his own belief of Rome’s dream and hierarchy differed greatly from the Barrack Emperor.

Glancing around the dozen of men, Aurelian mockingly added: “Because else I wouldn’t really see a reason to prolong your miserable life in defiance and grant you the pleasure of dying on roman soil, on civilised, united, PIOUS SOIL!”

The emperor panted from losing his temper in such a crude manner as he tugged at his tunic, revealing the sheath of his Gladius, a short sword in practice by the Romans since the First Punic War.

Septimus raised his bare hand and slapped the man across the face, leaving a red aching mark on the Gaul’s pale face who nonetheless looked up defiantly spitting blood mixed with spittle onto the ground.

“I am a Frank, no stinking Gaul.” His voice was weak, yet determined, proud of stating the truth in the face of death, proud of defending his own personal dream.

Aurelian’s mouth twitched around and his veins bulged and contorted as the sun fueled his temper, making it boil and boil like never before.

Without reacting to the indirect insult of his imperial authority, Aurelian turned around and whispered into Septimus’ ear: “After the men are gone and there are no witnesses, execute him. Bury his corpse and forget that it ever existed.”

Grimly nodding, Septimus didn’t release the Frank out of his piercing eyes’ chokehold.

The other Praetorian ripped the sealed letter out of the man’s bag before delivering it to his emperor, bowing his head as he presented the scroll to his leader who took it without opening it.

Glancing over to the still assembled Legates beneath the wide Aleppo pine, Aurelian stepped towards his horse and rode back to his officers, ignoring the struggling barbarian as he was taken to the main body of the army who would be marching again in a quarter of an hour.

Stepping into the refreshing shadow, Aurelian ran through his hair and swept away the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

“Our friend Victorinus sends his best regards,” joked the emperor, eliciting wholehearted laughter from the old men with a strange humour.

But the matter was serious. Any letter at this point in time addressed to him personally, which he knew the letter was due to his personal sigil, a golden sun, being depicted on the cover, meant grave news or terrible disasters.

With trembling hands, Aurelian opened the scroll and unfolded it, holding it slightly into the sun to better read its inscriptions.

He ruefully shook his head as he read the title Victorinus had chosen to give himself and to the illyrian commander.

“Marcus Piavonius Victorinus, Augustus and Caesar of Rome and its empire

to

Lucius Domitius Aurelianus, Magister Equitum, General of the Danube”

At least he knew my previous title and addressed me as a general. But he!? He an emperor? The only thing he suffices for is a spy or assassin with his cunning skullduggery and treacherous nature.

“As I anticipate and hope, by the time my message reaches you, exceeding commander of the imperial cavalry, you will have become emperor under your own right, or otherwise known as the same way I have become one.”

Eyes widening into abnormality, Aurelian quickly glanced around to assure himself that the present Legates couldn’t read the intent of the message. A message which already bore accusations and allegations which were enough to execute any man for treason.

But indeed Victorinus had been right in all of them. Aurelian had followed the usurper’s footsteps and deposed Claudius just like the ruler of the Gallic Empire had done with his predecessor, a smart move to secure his own promotion to the highest office of the Principate.

Amazed and slightly intimidated by his enemy’s ability to read and deduce the future, Aurelian shifted his position to obscure and deny his subordinates any view of the letter before resuming reading the fateful message.

“You may be wondering how I predicted this situation and to answer your urge to comprehend, I’ll reveal that your ranks may not be as loyal as you wished them to be. Intrigue, ambition or simply fear can motivate and control many people, Aurelian. But I didn’t write this letter to frighten or warn or even threaten you but to bring forth a proposal. A mutually beneficial proposal which would connect our two dynasties together, merging our bloodlines into one and thus uniting the empire once again, returning it to its former glory, resurrecting imperial pride and might of times past.”

Already dreading what the insane western usurper was proposing, Aurelian closed his eyes in resignation, needing a moment before continuing to catch his breath and calm his pulse.

“Lucius Domitius Aurelianus, I hereby offer the fine hand of my dearest sister to you, an able adversary and powerful man whose alliance would benefit Rome more than an open war with your military genius. Let us be the men who restore Rome to its ancient apex in the world, never again bowing to barbarians or corrupt aristocrats.”

“Leader of the danubian Legions and Imperator of Rome.”

“Marry my sister Venus Victorinus and watch Rome flourish in wealth, fertility and prosperity of unprecedented extent!”

Issued by imperial decree in Colonia Claudia Ara Agrippinensium,

Signed by his grace, Emperor Marcus Piavonius Victorinus of Rome

Controlling his expression demanded Aurelian’s utmost concentration as rage thundered inside his soul and mind at the utter impudence of the man who had succeeded the ones who originally plunged the empire into chaos and division.

Shaky eyes scrutinising his Legates and their questionable loyalty, Aurelian comprehended that they had been conversing the entire time, not sharing any attention with the immersed Augustus.

But the doubts about the men he trusted immediately angered Aurelian who realised that this uncertainty, this fear of the unknown, this anxiety and suspicion was exactly what his enemy wanted, whose words had been phrased to imbue precisely this feeling in his adversary’s heart and mind.

Clearing his throat, Aurelian jokingly began commenting on the letter, a sentence which would evolve into a tirade which would only move downwards the more he spoke.

“Guess who seeks to make peace and pretend everything’s dainty and flowery?”

Smiles were exchanged between the Legates and their oldest member, Scrofa, even replied: “Damn this gallic bastard really doesn’t know when he has lost, does he?”

And it would have been fine …

But Aurelian continued.

“Proposing to wed his hideous pig of a sister to me to unite the empire,” the mocking pronunciation of ‘unite’ emphasised his disgust.

“Ha, does he think that he can simply buy me? Seduce or entice me with a woman and the prospect of regular sex compared with an omnipotent empire and eternal glory?”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Aurelian didn’t bother checking his subordinates’ expressions: “Can you believe that his sister is called Venus? Ridiculous! Sacrilegious! Blasphemous! Who does he think he is to name his sister like a goddess?”

Spitting on the ground, an quite undignified action, the young enraged emperor resumed: “He thinks that I will simply accept defeat and retreat with my cock up my bum while he basks in the success and warmth of the people.”

Jolting upwards, he pierced each Legate with an intense stare, halting at Probus until yelling: “I swore to reincorporate the rebel empires of the west and east into the one true Rome! My Rome! And I will NOT take ANY compromises whatsoever. The empire shall stand! …

…

Or shall fall with me.”

This sentence made him realise his indecency and venting of rage was unjust towards the commanders who depended on him, who idolised him, who expected him to lead them to glory and greatness just as much as he expected it of himself.

Murmuring an apology, Aurelian recoiled a few steps until harshly calling: “Eudoxius!”

The man sprung to attention and straightened his old cracking back: “At your command Augustus!”

Measuring his tone, the Illyrian commanded: “Ready the troops and distribute the marching orders to the tribunes. We’re departing in 10 minutes.”

Saluting, Eudoxius vanished from their little circle as he left the shade and rode down the hill towards the sitting lines and groups of Legionaries and official dignitaries who ate, refreshed and gulped down gallons of water under the scorching sun.

Lost in thoughts, ideas and worries, Aurelian had spent the rest of the day up until the late moment that he was planted on his throne in the military camp’s commanding tent, in seclusion contemplating his situation and the reasons behind Victorinus’ letter.

As he rubbed his chin, the black stubbles of his beard already annoyed him, a man who liked his beard neatly shaved off, a luxury which war couldn’t deliver in most times.

-Maybe he indeed struggles with keeping the barbarians beyond the Limes and requests an alliance with me, the de facto leader of the illyrian and moesian Legions and protector of the Danubian Limes.

Possibly. But it could be a diversion to draw my concentration away from something crucial onto thinking about exactly the thing I’m thinking right now. But what could be more important?

Will he march to Rome? Will he defeat the Juthungi and proclaim himself emperor of the whole empire or will he maybe be content with the invasion of Hispania that has been brought to my attention …

Maybe purposefully …

Ahhh! Too many maybes! I need clear facts to wreak judgement and formulate decisions and plans!

Planting his head onto the cold wooden table, Aurelian stared straight at the brown floor, occasional patches of trampled grass desperately soared upwards in hope of light and nutrients.

Am I just like this flower? Is my attempt to beat nature and the Gods doomed to fail from the very start? Is Rome’s demise inevitable?

…

…

…

I will make Rome prevail eternally in unparalleled glory, my name and legend omnipresent in the future generations’ minds as the Saviour of Rome, as the Restorer of the World!

Terminating his delusional ramblings was a rhythmic tough sequence of three knocks on the door.

Three knocks, ha. I’ll knock on the doorstep to the death of my three mortal enemies.

“Enter!” Hurriedly yelled Aurelian as he reminded himself that he must answer if he was to expect someone to enter his chambers.

Door creaking open, the light from the torches positioned outside flooding the room, illuminating every corner of the spacious tent as a man clad in purple attire and armed with two swords and a dagger entered.

Aurelian began rummaging in the huge pile of documents after identifying the arrival to be Septimus, Praetorian Centurion and highest ranking imperial guard in Aurelian’s army due to unfortunate incidents which led to his predecessor and superior’s death.

“What are your wishes, your majesty?” Asked Septimus as he firmly stood in the doorframe, the shadow cast by his figure looming over Aurelian, partly obscuring the inscriptions on the tablets.

The man responsible for ruling the empire eventually found the orders and surprisingly didn’t hand them to Septimus who had already taken a few steps towards his emperor.

Without glancing upwards, the golden boy spoke in an assertive voice: “The barbarian messenger you have confined this noon shall be released into freedom again.”

Since the emperor didn’t justify the sudden change of heart after the rage from the midday, Septimus curtly blurted out: “Why?”

Stiffening as he instantly realised his mistake, the Praetorian tensely awaited his Imperator’s reaction.

But contrary to his common reaction to such a stupid impudent question, Aurelian actually replied by answering the question: “Well, I calmed down and am confident enought that I want to show my enemies the might of my army and the pride of my Legions. Enough of an answer?”

The raised eyebrow and faintly showing teeth signalled the Centurion that further questions were not welcomed and would be punished, thus he kept quiet until Aurelian dismissed him and the door was closed again.

Only to be opened seconds later by the frail clerk Numerus who spoke in a quiet feeble voice: “The score of messengers that you demanded is here, Caesar.”

Smiling to himself as he saw his plan unfold before his inner eye, Aurelian firmly replied: “Let them all come.”

This evening over a dozen messengers, spies and informants left the fortified road camp of the ‘Golden Army’ as the men of the 1st, 4th, 5th and 13th Legion called themselves, a name Aurelian approved since it’d boost morale and give the men and Legion-overspanning sense of allegiance and comradeship.

Envoys and diplomats to Palmyra, to Gaul, to Hispania, to Africa, to the distant Shah in Ctesiphon and at last to Rome.

The battlefield in his game of chess, in his struggle for supremacy and power was expanding right before his eyes.

The stage was beginning to form, commencing to morph into a form amenable by Augustus.

The world would know his name, would know of his legacy, of his dream.

The dream overshadowing any worldly pleasures, morals or laws.

Aurelian was just about to rekindle the extinguished flame, amplify the muted whisper, devastate the gentle tide and transform the world plagued with chaos and turmoil into one of order by creating a blazing devouring fire, a shrill cry of hope and defiance and a catastrophic storm which thunders through the land and rallies the Romans behind one banner …

Lift the banner of hope Aurelian. Grab it and reforge the world to your whims as a mortal deity revered and worshipped by generations to come. Forge your legacy in the fires of war.