Day 12

Gently swaying from side to side like waves under a light breeze, Aurelian rode at the head of his army, the purple Praetorians and lines of Legionaries with battered helmets, scratched tunics and dented armour extending behind him towards the vivid horizon.

Despite their shaken appearance, their neatly polished chest plates dazzled in the sun, a memorial of their pride and honour as Romans as well as a motto of the Legions: “Never become barbaric in appearance or mind,” a gentle reminder of their heritage and an affront to the hereditary, ancient nemesis.

As they approached the gates of Emona, a military settlement with a fort on a small hill, no formal greeting or challenge echoed over the reinforced battlements and palisades of the wall.

As expected after the cold greeting the cavalry received. Maybe they have mistaken the Dalmatians with barbarians or something similar to this. Nonetheless it’s unforgivable. Previous emperors would have executed the mayor or Centurion of Emona for such insolence-

Suddenly the gate creaked open as a dozen archers appeared on the wall, bowstrings stretched near tearing point and aimed at the emperor himself who glared at the traitors after an initial period of shock from which he promptly recovered, keeping his imperial grace in front of his stunned men and officers.

Appearing in the large gateway was a tall slender man of Greek descent, the chiselled facial structures and sharp, curved nose revealed it like the sun revealed reality.

Very slowly and very carefully the man approached the enemy army as the image of thousands of experienced, seasoned veterans lifting their shields and the cries of their officers ushering them into formation, visibly frightened him.

Decreasing his pace, he demanded in a wavering voice: “Who-who wishes to enter Emona?”

But a simple quick glance behind the man clad in purple robes and a fancy engraved golden laurel crown revealed the imposing man’s identity as Lucius Domitius Aurelianus, right-hand-man of the deceased Emperor Claudius and general of the danubian Legions.

With shivering knees, the man yelled: “I am Decius Novius Catus, O-Optio of the 1st century of the 1st cohort! State your business or-or return east since this city is under protection of imperial-”

He shut down immediately as Aurelian’s ashen steed trotted forward until the two men could look each other into the eye, the Imperator looming over the pathetic Optio who dared oppose the emperor himself, casting a long shadow over Catus.

In a calm, almost menacing voice the Illyrian general addressed Catus: “My dear Catus, is this how a mere Optio should show due respect to his emperor?”

Audibly gulping, the young beanpole kept his mouth shut as Augustus continued: “Now I could execute your for insolence and defamation of imperial integrity … or you could help me and gain my favour after angering me by either leading me into Emona to clear the discrepancy or by bringing your Legate or Senior Centurion outside.”

Like a father who needed to somehow convey the news of his son’s pet’s death to the boy, Aurelian teathralically said: “Unfortunately my Praetorians are direly longing for a battle to quell their murderous urges. Meh, a hunt would also suffice.”

With intimidating piercing eyes, the ambitious general stared right into Catus’ soul as he quietly hissed: “Now run. Run my little prey and bring me someone to rip apart. Or else you will have to suffice for my hellhounds.”

Eyes widening in utter fright, Catus spinned around and ran back to Emona, Septimus and the other Praetorians commenced chasing him but a simple motion of the emperor’s hand terminated their attempt at catching the fugitive.

Pure joy painted his face as Aurelian watched the young clumsy Optio tumble and stand up several times throughout his flight back to the safety of the pathetic hillfort.

After only five minutes, a tiny procession of three men passed the once again creaking gates of Emona.

This time however two older veterans appeared beside Catus who visibly despised the fact that he was where he was, only adding to the emperor’s amusement as the youngster squirmed and trembled in discomfort.

I could promote him to the Centurionate for his bravery and courage for meeting me.

But that would only anger the righteously appointed Centurions as well as hurt my army’s strength since tactically and militarily there are better options than him. Mmh, nothing to be done.

As the three men closed the distance between themselves and Aurelian, the man in front saluted the man opposing him, an example rapidly followed by Catus and the oldest of the trio.

Smugly smiling at the gesture, Aurelian beckoned his Praetorians to come. As they complied and trotted beside their leader, Aurelian spoke in an assertive manner: “I demand to know why entry was prohibited to me. Now.”

Eyes nervously twitching around, the foremost of the trio responded: “I’m sorry Emperor Aurelian but we had specific orders to prevent your excellency from entering Emona nor allow you passage in any way.”

“From whom?” Aurelian’s voice was cold and unempathetic.

Audibly gulping and careful in his phrasing, the Centurion with his vine staff, otherwise known as a beating rod, replied: “Our cohort was levied and stationed here by imperial decree of … of Emperor Quintillus.”

Aurelian’s eyes defocused and became blurry as his worst dread became reality and a new challenge in the form of another usurper who was additionally supported by the senate finalised itself.

Massaging his wrinkled forehead as stress and doubts clouded his judgement, Aurelian kept quiet, a sign which Septimus, leader of the imperial guard interpreted as an order to arrest the three men for treason since they called the usurper ‘Emperor.’

Despite already anticipating Quintillus to proclaim himself Augustus, the ultimate revelation still shocked Aurelian who had kept quiet throughout the entry to Emona, the imprisonment of the stationed cohort which didn’t resist and voluntarily joined his cause up until the moment he firmly slumped down on the sheep-fur covered throne.

Before him stood two Praetorians, Brutus and Cassius, who firmly lodged Flavianus, the senior Centurion of the enemy cohort, between them, dagger held at the old man’s throat, ready to slice the airway at any sudden movement or flight attempt.

“When was your cohort assembled or levied and when were you ordered to man Emona and prevent me from passing?”

A light slap from Brutus jolted Flavianus’ head forward as he whimpered and replied: “My cohort was levied from recruits who were already mustering at Aquileia. Furthermore we weren’t the only units being trained. At least seven other cohorts were armed and equipped for war, probably to expel those barbarians from our land.”

Ah, my head aches. So, so terribly.

“Continue,” indifferently ushered Aurelian the kneeling man, his rough fingers busy kneading his forehead to somehow disperse the pain.

“I believe that news about the arrival of an usurper from the east reached my ears yesterday in the evening - or was it noon? Nevertheless, Quintillus notified us that he was marching northwards to quell the germanic threat and that he’d rally at Aquileia awaiting the arrival of the 10th Legion Gemina from Vindobona. We were supposed to hold the passage to Italia from you - your excellency Augustus.”

Coldly glaring at the man, Aurelian's mind raced as he assessed the situation.

Quintillus with infinite wealth, supported by the senate and in control of at least 2 Legions. Hm, you’re really challenging me, Fortuna. You’re really … having a fucking amusing time, don’t you?

“You’re strangely composed. Don’t you fear that I’ll execute you and your whole cohort for treason and scheming against the emperor and the threatened people of Rome - who are in dire need of relief?”

Glancing from guard to guard, Flavianus replied: “I pray for your leniency and that your majesty accepts my and my men’s plea to allow us to join you in your war to unite the empire again. The-the legends about you proclaim you as a devout uniter - My Emperor,” the sweating idler quickly added.

The pleading undertone in the Centurion’s voice amused Aurelian who smugly thought, so the news of my dream has already spread beyond the boundaries of Illyricum and into the empire. Fantastic. Sorry Fortuna, I humbly thank you.

His iron expression didn’t reveal his cynical, amused and even worried thoughts for a second as he stared down onto the bowing man with a grim, decisive visage.

Analysing his fingernails which had grown beyond his own liking, Aurelian spoke: “I accept your burning desire and sign of loyalty to join my successful and certainly victorious Legions. However I will keep you here in Emona for the time I am dealing with Quintillus the craven Usurper as the empire calls him, decreed by me, the Emperor.”

Satisfied at his own phrasing of words, Aurelian assured the man: “But don’t enjoy my absence for too long. I already have an idea to solve the conflict without bloodshed. Or rather without being forced to slaughter two of my Legions on the battlefield. Romans shouldn’t kill Romans. Even if that’s how it all began.” A hint of irony accompanying his voice.

Directing the Praetorians to the door using his eyes, Augustus dismissed Flavianus and ordered his guards to leave as well.

Gently biting on his lips, the ruler’s eyes blurred as he contemplated whether his priorities were of practical or of idealistic nature.

Well, both because my little private war favours the possessionless.

Aurelian lifted his chin before yelling: “Numerus! Tell Lar Aemilius Genesius to immediately meet in my office!”

Without awaiting an answer, Aurelian swished over the table with his arm, pushing away documents, writing tools and goblets of wine or mead.

Time passed as Aurelian studied the map laying before him intently, the dozenth or so time that week, when the door creaked open, eliciting an annoyed sigh from the emperor who really shouldn’t have challenged the God of doors to a duel of perseverance.

After what felt an eternity but was in reality mere 10 minutes, Tribune Genesius, the man with a strange name, entered the emperor’s chambers and saluted his leader and mentor for several years since he joined the 13th Legion in their war to repel the Goths and other tribes from the lands south of the Danube.

“Greetings Genesius,” happily chanted Aurelian, his mood had swung around instantly as he saw the aspiring promising young man, despite him being in his mid-thirties, approximately the same age as the emperor himself.

Like authority demanded, Lar stiffened and saluted: “Ave Aurelian!”

Content at his subordinate’s sufficient respect, Aurelian addressed the ambitious officer.

“Tribune Lar Aemilius Genesius, second-in-command of the 13th Legion Gemina as well as patrician of the Aemilia dynasty …”

The visible disgust from the young man at the mention of his family plastered a smile on the Imperator’s face as he scrutinised the muscular tall man before him, brown eyes and brown hair, dominant nose and chiselled chin, imperial loyalty and excellent strategic, tactical knowledge he represented the typical, ideal Roman in all his glory.

“What do you desire, Lar?” Purposefully using the man’s first name to throw him off, Aurelian excitedly awaited the man’s answer.

Straightening himself and repositioning his body into an acceptable martial form, Genesius firmly replied: “I want to serve Rome and her people, unite the empire and gain glory for myself, not my name.”

A studied answer paired with enough realism to make it believable, cunning my dear tribune. Cunning indeed. Maybe a bit too much? No, probably not. For now. Young men aspire the most and fear the most, making them easily controllable. Just like dogs who are content with the fine meat’s bony remains at first.

Folding one hand over the other, Augustus resumed: “I propose a promotion to you my dear Lar,” again the forced, manipulative familiarity.

“If you are interested in leading a Legion, you now have the chance.”

The man’s eyes went comically wide as the emperor restrained a chuckle from his deepest heart before continuing as if he was indifferent about it.

“Consisting of the capture cohort of Emona as well as newly levied troops in southern Pannonia and Noricum, you will be appointed the Temporary Legate of the 23rd Legion Invicta. Do you accept my benevolent proposal?”

Despite comprehending that it was rhetorical, Genesius eagerly nodded his head as he still couldn’t believe that he’d lead his own Legion at the young age of 34, a feat not many before him had achieved.

Well, it would be the case if Aurelian had appointed him Legate but a Temporary Legate could luckily be withdrawn at any time and had no legislative or executive power over the Legion itself and was only needed to steer it on marches and secure the ration and weapon distributions.

But bliss could hide the painful truth, shield one’s eyes from it so as to not expire and perish.

Coughing to focus the jubilant man’s attention onto him once again, Aurelian sternly stared right into his opponent’s brown eyes and whispered: “You will ensure the integrity and imperial affiliation of the new Legion. Inspire loyalty among the men, not fear or hatred towards our beautiful nation. I’d rather have no troops at all behind my back than wavering irresolute traitors. Understood?”

Hand jolting upwards into a salute, the new Legate of the 23rd yelled: “Yes Caesar! I swear by my life to not disappoint you!”

“I hope so, for your sake,” whispered Aurelian in an inaudible volume, before ordering significantly louder: “Dismissed! You may tend to your new duties. Numerus will be your instructor and you can always ask Probus for any advice. He’s a good guy who essentially led to your promotion. Thank him.”

While turning around, the overjoyed soldier responded: “I certainly will, Emperor Aurelian!”

The recipient of this message surely liked the sound of it: Emperor Aurelian.

If it weren’t for the impudent volume he used, I could get accustomed to it. Well, if I intend to rule for life, I should even get comfortable with it. Hahahaha.

The old man really laughed at his own horrendous joke as the worries about a new civil war and a new front dispersed.

Day 13

Grey clouds covered the blue sky as the Legionaries glanced up to them in hope that they’d break and flood the dry plains of Dalmatia with their vital nectar.

The previous day’s ceremony for the inauguration of Genesius as Legate and the formation of the 23rd Legion Invicta had ended in a debauchery of alcohol, women and delicacies despite only being a day’s march away from the usurper’s camp at Aquileia, the imperial spies providing the ultimate evidence for the senatorial uprising against Aurelian’s militant power.

But despite the immediate peril, the usually strict and disciplined emperor had indulged in excessive libations and orgies, temporarily transferring command over the four Legions to his trusted friend Probus who he vaguely remembered kissing the previous night.

However age began taking its toll on the emperor as he clutched his head on his ashen steed, the pungent headache and never-ending nausea souring his mood gravely as he had wished to be left alone for the next hours, a luxury Fortuna wouldn’t grant the whacked, battered Aurelian.

Pounding hooves which decelerated significantly and abruptly behind the emperor made him glance behind to watch out that he was neither stabbed nor pierced like his predecessors.

After a short conversation the unknown newcomer passed the watchful eye of Septimus as the rider approached his Imperator.

The latter was mortified as he recalled the man’s name who he did know.

Publius Macrinius Zosimus, one of the most loyal, conscientious men in his army. But unfortunately also one of the least competent of his rank as junior Tribune of the 5th Macedonia.

After a quick salute the panting Tribune told his ruler: “Augustus, two Legionaries have stolen sheep from a local farmer who pleaded with me to inform you - your grace, since the decree you issued still holds judicial power.”

Slowly nodding on his high steed Aurelian already imagined the punishment those men would be demonstrating before the entire army, parading up and down the Via Pannonia with patches of wool lodged in each of their holes.

A cruel punishment but Aurelian always wanted to be a man of his word, unlike his diplomatic senatorial predecessors who were mostly of lower birth and thus compensated for their lack of noble blood by acting high and noble when they shouldn’t have, a mistake he would certainly not repeat.

“Bring them to me,” ordered the man in an assertive, firm manner, not allowing any opposition which wouldn’t have come in the first place, but for the young ruler it was great training for later times where persuasion and oral skills were demanded.

Thus Zosimus departed again, only to return some minutes later with two men on mules who were stripped of their armour and weapons, leaving them in only their brown tunics and once-white, dusty trousers.

Quickly evaluating the men before him, Aurelian judged them to be villagers somewhere from Illyria who thought that the army’s pay didn’t suffice and wanted to add a little to their check.

Without explanation, Aurelian said: “I have no need for men who cannot control their dark urges. Neither do I tolerate any disobedience. Nor thieves.”

The last word was painfully punctuated to make the outlaws feel guilty and terrible for their evil deed but Aurelian was a man who sought knowledge and comprehension, if only to lead men and deceive enemies but he was inquiring to say the least.

“Why do men of my precious, proud Legions need to resort to such lowly means to sustain them?” he demanded in a deep, grim voice.

At first hesitant to answer, the emperor’s piercing, hot gaze eventually thawed their resolve as the man with a long blonde beard spoke first: “We-we abided by your decree, Au-Au-Augustus.”

Following this strange revelation, the man with the stubble of a brown beard urgently said: “My Emperor! I swear that we broke no law! There was this Tribune who-who - he promised us that a little-just a little extra denarii!”

“Lower your tongue or I will forcefully rip it out of your impudent mouth.”

The intimidating threat elicited utter silence from the men around him, the only sound vibrating in the midday sky being the horses’ neighing, the rhythmic pounding of the soldiers’ boots and the melodic chanting of marching songs further down the column.

“Who promised you that your unjust deed would be tolerated?” The menacing undertone in his voice allowed no deceit nor lies. The consequence of those was certain.

Glancing at each other the men stuttered until the blonde man gasped loudly and yelled: “Ulpio Artorius Vincentius! Tribune Vincentius of the 13th. Yes, he told us.”

Stunned by the revelation of the perpetrator, a hint of fright flickered over Aurelian’s face as he regained his composure and turned towards Septimus.

“Bring him here. If the situation demands it: With force!”

Nodding at the clear orders from his emperor, Septimus and five more Praetorians spurred their horses around and rode contrary to the Legions’ movement direction towards the backend of the column where the elite, the best of the best, the 13th Legion led by Probus was marching.

Probus … What have you allowed to happen in your Legion? Corruption, disobedience and sloth! Despicable.

The endless possibilities for the reason for the discrepancy between his orders and the version the two thieves received agonised Aurelian and his patience could only be stretched so far before it would tear and he’d send another squadron to get Vincentius.

But it wouldn’t come so far since a hurried rider thundered past the lines of Legionaries before he stopped just short of the imperial procession, careful as to not halt too close to his majesty to sully his cloak with dust.

Acilius, a Praetorian handpicked by Septimus, greeted his emperor before reporting: “Ulpio Artorius Vincentius has fled my Imperator. When we asked his colleagues and the men of the 13th as well as Legate Probus, they all replied the same. He is supposed to have gone to urinate but has been missing for nearly a quarter of an hour now. Eyewitnesses report that he rode westward.”

Teeth crunching and mouth slightly open, Aurelian stared ahead.

Westward … right towards the coast and right towards the second less popular road to Aquileia. Wicked bastard. Ambitious duplicitous Tribune. Dishonest equestrian brat. Fuck.

Aurelian was certain.

The first of many spies and agents in his ranks had just been discovered and had just been allowed to report to his masters in Rome, his scheming treacherous bastards who only saw short-term profit and personal gain opposed to the full picture and the war for survival the Romans fought.

So the senate wants a war. And the puppet emperor Quintillus supports them.

Rome, why do you always tear yourself apart? No barbarians or invaders could hope to match your own destructive power and the devastation you summon upon yourself.

A tragedy.

A tragedy to execute the senate for treason.

A tragedy.