Mud splattered into the sky as barbed boots trudged through the rain and frost eroded ground towards the greatest and most reinforced tent in the whole camp.

Tightly clutching his red cloak the man hurried to the erect imperial tent of his general, the smell of shit and fire stinging pungently in his nostrils as the squelching sounds accompanied his way to the Legate assembly.

Loud, chaotic voices rang through the closed tent flaps, the two purple-cloaked, soaked guardsmen crossing their spears as the messenger approached their protegee’s tent, their faces grim and their mood sour as nature’s whims unloaded on them with full might.

After stating his business and proving his identity, the short man was allowed to enter as the flaps were ripped open, a violent breeze invading the meeting as all eyes shot towards the drenched arrival in his lumpy, ragged clothes.

“I bring urgent news for Emperor Aurelian from Aquileia’s garrison,” murmured an exhausted, sniffling and ailing man who appeared to fall unconscious at any given moment.

With a self-explanatory hand motion, Aurelian directed two dry Praetorians to stabilise the man and give him something to drink and eat as was often custom for spies with good news to please the Gods and show them that their messages were welcomed wholeheartedly.

Deeming the quivering man as unresponsive to advances from his side, Aurelian pointed at Legate Scrofa, directing him to continue explaining his opinion about the resolution of the aquileian issue: “As I’ve said, it is essential to pass the bulwark since Italia is pillaged and burned to the ground while we nicely talk with the usurper who should just be crushed beneath our boots after we’ve evaded Aquileia, taken a few casualties but then beat the germanic intrusion-”

“Not an intrusion, an invasion. A full scale invasion of Italia, of our homeland,” chirped in Eudoxius, Legate of the 4th Flavia Felix.

Rolling his eyes at his bleaker colleague, Scrofa continued unimpeded: “By all good means my Emperor but you cannot expect those loyalists, those war enthusiasts to disobey direct orders and defect to our forces. Occurrences such as these might have been common in the times of Augustus or Caesar but now men don’t fight for ideals or for loyalty but for money and influence. The world has changed. It’s time we change with it.”

Sitting back onto the cushioned bank, Scrofa put his arms before his chest and sullenly glanced around, signalling that his speech was finished.

Just as Eudoxius was about to reply and probably counterargument, Aurelian lifted his arm, silencing every one of the numerous brawlers in the small tent.

His head resting comfortably on his own folded hands, the danubian general thought for a moment, uninfluenced by the constant babbling and jabbering from his Legates who absolutely did not act their advanced age.

Speaking in a calm, confident voice, Aurelian addressed the 5th’s Legate: "There are no 'war enthusiasts', only idiots and fools who have been blinded by Quintillus’ lies and false promises of glory, wealth and power. That’s why I believe that upon showing them how their actions harm Rome they will defect and mutiny. I firmly believe that … Scrofa. Weren’t it your troops which mutinied at Napoca since they saw your actions as anti-Roman and counter-idealistic? Shouldn’t it be the elite rather than the peasant who values morals and ethics?"

A question which dared no denial nor answer as Aurelian blankly stared ahead, his thoughts puzzling into a giant net of conspiracies, possibilities and problems which sought to be resolved.

The emperor took a sip out of his golden goblet of wine before speaking in a moderate voice: “You are dismissed, gentlemen. Prepare your Legions to enter standard battle formations tomorrow at noon. That’s when I’m going to deliver my speech. That’s the day that the Empire’s fate will be decided.”

As most people left the imperial tent, among whom were the three Legates, the Praetorians and some clerks, Aurelian shook his head ruefully.

“Judgement day, Die Iudicii,” whispered the young man as he relaxed, the headache stinging his brain and his throat hoarse from hours of speaking. Finally the mysterious messenger from the besieged town stepped forward and delivered his crucial report.

Just two hours later, Aurelian’s fatigued mind drifted off into Somnus’ realm, all the trouble and worries burdened onto the next day.

Preparations had consumed most of the morning and the first hours past the sun’s zenith, delaying his majesty’s schedule by a large margin.

But now Aurelian was ready, clad in fine purple garments, the golden, victorious laurel on his fine hair which appeared brown in the glaring sun, the previous day’s storm had evaporated during the night and the morning sun had dried up the land once more. On this steady ground he confidently trotted down the slope towards Aquileia, the Gate to Italia.

Adorning his side were the engraved Gladius and a silver lance depicting the legendary re-enlistment of four Legions by Caesar using the famous one-worder: “Quirites” A word which terminated the biggest mutiny in Rome’s history.

Behind him rode four dignitaries of the imperial eagle, standard bearers of the four Legions who were loyal to him, of the men who served the right emperor on his way to the capital and beyond.

His ashen steed Maximus had been armoured, groomed and washed as it beamed in a bright white with the saviour of Rome on top of its back, equally as dazzling in his white cloak and shining armour.

That was the message: The glorious Aurelian had arrived to shepherd the misguided sheep back onto the righteous Roman path.

The distant chopping of trees for the construction of siege engines slightly deteriorated his glorious attire but added to the intimidating, menacing side of the ruler ready to strike at his own brethren who delayed the salvation of the empire.

There he stood, hundreds of armed men glancing down at the defenceless emperor who could be struck by a missile or a javelin at any moment but didn’t dread the peril in the slightest - or at least smartly veiled the fact that he did.

Without glancing once at the soldiers looming over him, his gaze firmly on the metal gate, Aurelian loudly demanded: “Open the gate and send the usurper and deceiver Quintillus outside! Who am I to talk to an iron gate instead of your leader and oh-so-mighty Imperator? Tell him that if I am brave enough to ride to his doorstep, he should be courageous enough to show his twisted, hideous face to me, to the real, to the worthy Emperor who has won battles and wars in the east, something he cannot brag about.”

But as the minutes passed and he remained determinedly on his steed, not looking up, always facing forward, his temper expired as he derogatively added: “Men on the ramparts! My men! Tell me why you follow someone as greedy and corrupt as Quintillus, the lap dog of the senate and pawn of the mighty aristocracy!”

The strained atmosphere was palpable and Aurelian confidently smiled as he felt from the utter silence that none of the men above could counter his demand and tell him otherwise.

Ambitious and cunning as he was, he used the opportunity.

“Let me ask you a question! Who of you is part of the noble elite? Of the senatorial class? Of equestrian heritage?” A tense pause.

“Judging from the stench you emit, none of you,” he joyfully chanted, eliciting an actual chuckle from the wall, the tense, resolute silence broken.

Smug smile only growing wider and more dominant, Aurelian finally shot his gaze upwards, the nearest soldiers visibly recoiling, hiding from the man’s piercing eyes, the shame of knowing his words were true too great for the simple-minded footsoldiers, mostly peasants like Aurelian used to be one.

Still no sign from the usurper who was losing his grip over the wavering Legions by the second.

Did my plan work? Surely Septimus’ spy couldn’t have been this convincing.

But whatever the emperor had done ahead of his speech must have been utterly effective since not even the new Praetorian recruits ascended the walls to attack their employer’s and benefactor’s archnemesis.

“Don’t you have any shame, supporters of someone who doesn’t appear before his own city gates despite numerical, tactical and defendable advantage? I would. A lot,” his joyful tone had vanished and was instead replaced with a cold, stinging, almost nonchalant narrative, as if he was simply stating the facts which the troops only had to agree with.

“I’ve seen barbarians stand their ground more prideful and courageous than the noble weasel hiding behind Aquileia’s walls,” continued Aurelian in an almost mockingly calm voice.

“Mercy for us Romans and brutality for those heathens. A motto all of you bear in heart and mind. All of you have fought against barbarians, germanic, celtic, gothic, it doesn’t matter but that is what unites us, what unites us Romans. One folk. One people. One undivided might!”

In utter disbelief he shook his head: “Do you believe that Quintillus thinks the same way as we do? As people who actually worked for our position? Who sacrificed time, tears and blood to stand where we stand?”

Cutting through the air, his finger stretched accusingly at the defenders, Aurelian yelled: “You! You support someone who thinks of you as inferior men, as bugs, as mere insects to step on and use on the ladder up the political landscape! Because of greedy, ambitious men like him our Empire lies in chaos and ruins! Because of him and the ones who allow him to reign, Rome is divided! Thus it is weak!”

Quiet murmurs and whispers rippled through the men above Augustus whose visage was grim and stern as his facial veins bulged and pulsated angrily, his real thoughts of utter malicious, wicked amusement and joy hidden beneath the resolute, heated expression of a Soldieremperor.

“Legions of Aquileia! Allies of Rome! Friends of justice and liberty! Holy soldiers of a righteous cause! Unite with your brothers in blood and faith and expel the heathens from Italia! Save the Empire! Save the heart which connects us! Save Rome!”

Shouts of encouragement and support increased in volume throughout the wall, cries of salvation by Aurelian, shouts of godly favour and shrieks of pain as the loyalists on the wall were pierced by a ‘Golden Legionnaire’, a loyal follower of Aurelian.

But that was all calculated, not one of Fortuna’s whims. Because Aurelian himself was playing God.

To emphasise himself as a just samaritan, he lifted both his arms as if in surrender and yelled: “Cease the conflict! Stop! Terminate your infidelious acts this very instant!” The orders seemed to grasp the soldiers’ hearts, preventing the steady influx of more men into the mass brawl, which itself slowly dispersed and untangled itself, the two sides grimly separating under their Emperor’s watchful eyes.

“Brothers! We are all Romans! We shouldn’t be fighting ourselves when the enemy is right beyond these walls! The enemy who is ignored by the more malicious villain inside those walls!” The corners of his mouth raised for less than a split second, before he added in a stern, determined tone: “Drag the traitor out of his fancy palace and put him on trial for crimes against imperial integrity and the Roman populace! Now!”

But just as the first men were actually descending the stairs to heed the true Augustus’ orders, a loud yet wavering voice resonated inside the fortified city, echoing over the walls and piercing Aurelian’s ears with a stinging sensation as he recalled the familiar voice.

Quintillus and his numerous Praetorians appeared on the wall, dispersing the crowd which had formed above the barred gate, terminating the protest and extinguishing the flame of resistance, yet it had been planted into his men’s heads, the seed was buried and the flame already kindled though weak and frail.

“There he is! Your puny, deceiving, lying Child who cannot cope with power and decided to roleplay as Emperor for a bit - no - for a tad bit too long! Because now he’ll die or surrender!” The vociferous, impudent and considering the situation of his defencelessness, quite stupid announcement was met with open outrage from Quintillus’ entourage consisting of clerks, nobles and senators who whispered into his ear like snakes deceiving Eve to bite into the mesmerising apple.

Hushing his soldiers and the chants of praise from some men through force and punishment, Quintillus spoke in a composed yet feeble, almost sickly voice: “General Aurelian! Who allowed you to enter Italia with an army? Do you care to show me your senatorial decree?”

Smiling at the cunning response, Aurelian simply waved goodbye in a theatrical manner by bowing in Maximus’ saddle and extravagantly swinging his hand around, before steering his ashen steed away from Aquileia, heading back to his camp the moment the usurper had entered the wall.

Flabbergasted by the leaving Illyrian, the equestrian usurper stormed down the wall, closely followed by advisers, guards and wealthy investors who bet on his victory and were now getting scared after witnessing the might of Aurelian’s formed-up army, the rows of Legionaries extending towards the horizon endlessly as they blocked the path eastward fully, the mass of bodies blockading the way as they occupied the whole hill.

Aurelian’s plan had worked. The only question remaining: How much of it was planned? And how much further did it grasp? Was the battle inevitable? Or was the speech enough? Or was the speech a mere diversion?

Many questions …