Strange would describe the atmosphere of the day really well.

Facing each other, the armoured, armed and spurred on Roman armies tensely awaited their generals’ orders to either return to camp and city, or attack and fight against their brothers and friends.

The two antagonising emperors, one proclaimed by the people, one by the senate, rode up and down the lines of fierce men, shouting the common phrases of encouragement and appeals to valour and courage.

Fierce men who lacked the slightest bit of determination or resolve.

Not one demeaning insult, not one derogatory comment and not one cry of war or battle hymn tore through the agonising silence.

Plainly said, Romans detested fighting Romans. And it showed.

Despite the extremely advantageous position, Quintillus had left Aquileia and positioned his army in formation in front of the bulwark due to pleas and forceful ushering from both foot soldiers and officers to fight against the enemy at the gates in order to prevent mass-mutinies or defections to the already overwhelming populist side.

But despite heeding his subordinates’ advice, Quintillus refrained from attacking, possibly due to his enemy’s advantageous position and the chance to always retreat back to Aquileia, a secured safe haven.

For more than four hours those two formations of tightly packed Roman Legionaries had been staring at each other, doing absolutely nothing as messengers ran up and down behind the lines to seem like the army was going to attack only to reveal at the last instant that it was chickening out. Both parties would return to the original position and continue their staredown.

Just like this the sun trailed over the men’s sweating heads as both leading groups contemplated how to beat the enemy in the best way possible.

That was until the second stage of Aurelian’s plan commenced.

In the distance above the army on the city walls swung a golden imperial eagle on his golden standard.

The emperor smiled as his plan unfolded before his eyes and behind the arrogant usurper’s back. The pawns were all moving into place for his first game as Augustus.

With a gentle kick into Maximus’ grey flank, the horse began moving in a measured trot down the hill towards the bulwark of Italia.

But suddenly thousands of thumping boots behind caused Aurelian to turn around and jolt in his saddle as he screamed from the depths of his lungs: “Stop! STOP IT! Return! I will ride alone! Alone!”

Despite the quivering voice, he wasn’t angry or furious but rather utterly amused and complimented by his soldiers’ determination to follow him into battle so readily.

Trusting his loyal men to obey his orders, the youngster returned his gaze towards Aquileia, scouting the terrain and the army ahead for any movement which indicated a trap. But what he saw from the corner of his eye fantasised him even more.

The descent had been unimpeded. No missiles or javelins were thrown at him to intimidate or even kill him, a sign of Quintillus’ arrogance and senatorial mindset of superiority over simple peasants like Aurelian.

Occasional shouts from officers or jealous soldiers to throw the pilas at the approaching Caesar echoed over the field but the air remained vacant of arrows or spears as any real action was missing, the determination and bloodlust of the aquileian Legionaries as low as those of the ‘Golden Army.’

The manoeuvre he was just about to pull off could be fatal.

Aurelian put everything on one single card. Either he could gain the men’s trust and loyalty and repel the invaders from Italia, afterwards reuniting the fragmented empire or he could lose all of his short-lived power and glory by an ungracious death through a random man on the battlefield and his whims.

Yet the expected fear was vacant in the young man’s mind. No throbbing ache, no doubt in the back of his head warned him to remain cautious. As he was trusting the men before him with his life and destiny, he felt safe, as if encompassed by protective safe hands of divine origin. Divine …

A quick prayer to Sol Invictus was recited in his thoughts before he engaged in the persuasion of his army, of the army he would need if he wanted to stand the slightest of chances against the thousands of marauding Germans.

Maximus came to a halt as the emperor’s gaze wandered over the 10.000 men standing in dazzling, polished armour before Aquileia’s gates, ready to fight their brothers in spirit and home.

“Honour!”

A simple exclamation which demanded an explanation. An explanation that Aurelian didn’t deliver. Yet.

Confused at their enemy’s words, the Legionaries stared at each other, their gazes rotating between their comrades, their commander and the opposing general.

Most of them began to whisper and murmur with their partners and neighbours, speculating whether the famous danubian general and Legate was having a stroke or perhaps his mind was as insane as cunning.

Before his piercing brown eyes, Quintillus shuffled uncomfortably in his saddle despite being amongst his own soldiers while the confident, experienced general faced a whole army alone and with no protection except the imperial chestplate engraved with tales of mortal Gods past.

That was the sign for him, the moment of his nemesis’ weakness.

Aurelian smiled smugly as he shouted: “Honour is the last thing which unites us as one people, as one entity of benevolence and sanctity!”

“If your hearts tell you to join me, come! I welcome you with open arms, with leniency and clemency for those misguided by a corrupt, wicked regime led by people who couldn’t care less about you, the people whose shoulders sustain our beautiful empire!”

Anticipated silence reigned over the hills of Aquileia as nothing moved, the horses keeping their tails calm and the wind ceasing to blow entirely.

Aurelian’s piercing hazel eyes glanced at the nearest soldiers to him who all evaded his gaze rather staring to the ground, mortified and ashamed, bound in place only by the last sense of duty to the man who was proclaimed emperor by the senate.

Come on! The senate is an ancient construct whose power and influence have long diminished! Trust your faith and dream!

Now Julius, move and live or die and fall alongside me …

A tall, blonde man with many scars covering his face and many dents plastering his armour, stepped forward from the long line of infantry.

In an agonisingly slow motion he grabbed his helmet, the red horsehair stiff as rock and pulled it down until he held it beside him, angled in his hip.

Judging from the attire and aura he emitted, Aurelian deemed him to occupy the status of a Legate.

With a vociferous voice, the faintest of accents audible, the Gaul thundered: “I, Julius Placidianus, pledge my allegiance to the righteous Augustus of Rome and the man who is worthy of titling himself Imperator! Ave Aurelian and hail your grace!”

His spare hand shot forward as he saluted the man whose smile went from ear to ear and beyond.

Following Placidianus’ confession of loyalty, more and more soldiers stepped out of line and began kneeling onto the dry grass, bowing their heads as they all screamed praise and hail to the true emperor who basked in their tribute like in the warmth of the sun.

One by one, then score by score then cohort by cohort, his rival’s men defected to Aurelian as they loosened their helmet straps and followed their comrades’ example and knelt before the dream of Rome.

In a cunning manipulation of friends and foes alike, Aurelian had successfully persuaded and gained two more Legions for his cause alongside several auxiliary cohorts from Gaul and Hispania.

Clicking his tongue, the emperor - the righteously elected - ushered Maximus into a trot towards Quintillus and his entourage who had watched in horror as their men and supporters left the sinking ship and joined the more prestigious and capable military leader.

As he watched his rival’s approach with wide eyes, Quintillus panicked, his senatorial temper unable to cope with such stressful situations, and spurred his horse onwards, the nearest Praetorians, advisers and senator colleagues following their banished Augustus and his tarnished reputation and fame.

Well I thought you would’ve either commited suicide from shame or executed by your own soldiers. Meh, guess I’ll crucify you once we’re in Rome.

Aurelian’s gaze turned from his new roaring supporters to the quiet line of men on top of the hill.

In a moment of utter bliss, he lifted his arm and waved his 4 Legions towards him as a sign that he had accomplished his goal, that bloodshed of Romans had been prevented.

Distant trails of rising dust revealed to Aurelian that Quintillus was riding at maximum pace in order to escape his vengeful ex-soldiers and the ruthless grasp of the illyrian Emperor.

Now you seek the favour of the senate in a desperate race to assemble enough troops to gain those corrupt pigs’ clemency and mercy.

Ha, if they don’t lacerate you, I will.

Well, I should now.

And Aurelian did. Upon the arrival of his imposing main force and the unification between cousins, friends, neighbours and even brothers, the Emperor in command of more than 30.000 Legionaries sent his best decurion ahead to catch and eliminate Quintillus before he could spur more unrest and chaos.

But for now, the men should celebrate.

They should indulge in debauchery and excess as the first step towards the Empire’s salvation was accomplished and the dream was brought ever closer to the people’s heart.

The flame of Rome was rekindled once more in an act of fraternity and solidarity with fellow Romans. Another civil war had been averted.

“Septimus!” Sounded the Imperator’s voice over the busy Legionaries assembling the camp before Aquileia.

“Septimus,” now weaker since the Praetorian guard captain seemed to have heard his emperor’s call.

“Spread the message among our and the usurper's men that I will grant leniency to anyone who wakes up and disperses the propaganda and illusions Quintillus planted into their heads. Especially target an individual called Julius Placidianus. He’s the same as we are. A lowborn who fought and murdered his way up the influential ladder." The tone in his emperor’s voice was urgent, signalling to the agitated soldier the importance and severity of his task.

“He knows who I am and he knows who you are, or rather to which group of people you belong. Nonetheless, introduce yourself. Convince him at all costs to join our cause and if he cannot be convinced in the usual way, hand him this scroll. Keep it shut until you’re sure that your attempts at persuasion have failed.”

The menacing undertone was enough to intimidate Septimus and prevent any little peek beneath the cover as the Praetorian saluted and left the hastily constructed tent again into the breezy night.

The fate of the empire depends on your success, Septimus. Don’t disappoint me and the Gods.