The Valentian Campaign Read online

  Mind you he could see Stilicho’s point. Using his tame Visigoths to fight their brothers would be suicidal. The barbarians would slit the throats of whichever Roman idiot was nominally in charge of them and then slip across the field of battle to join them. So he understood why Stilicho wanted to settle the Visigoths along the Rhenus.

  The problem was that there were people already there. Yes, the frontier region had been badly weakened by the fighting and yes there were areas that desperately needed a period of peace and quiet to build up the population again. The arrival of the Bructeri was also a complicating factor. Yes they would fight to protect the frontier. But they were also going to be prickly in the extreme when it came to any talk of moving them.

  Finally there was also the fact that he didn’t trust the Visigoths for a moment. Alaric had been about as trustworthy as a Sassanian. And their multi-sided civil war at the moment was just damn dangerous. So far it was just Visigoth against Visigoth and yes their numbers were diminishing fast, but at some point sanity had to break out, they would coalesce again and then they’d become dangerous again.

  And so Stilicho’s plan to settle those bastards along the Rhenus had to be stopped. Or at least diverted.

  Constantius stalked over to the table and then looked down at the reports and letters that were scattered across it. He had some letters of his own to write. And some songs to sing in the ears of certain people.

  Aurelianus looked around the room with carefully hidden amusement. Another meeting. Another opportunity to observe people. And another opportunity to see what was going on beneath the surface. This last part was the most important one. Especially when it came to dealing with a snake like Vitalis. That man always made him uneasy.

  What was interesting was the way that some of the others were changing. Oh, Marcus was still Marcus. Which was to say: an idiot. An idiot who wanted to smite things, so a dangerous idiot, but still an idiot.

  Tupilius though… well, he was changing. He was less likely to wail about how they all needed to appeal to the Empire as soon as possible. The lack of any help at all (other than vague calls on their loyalty plus the occasional demand for money) over the past few years had hit him hard. And had toughened him up in the process.

  Then there was Decidivatus. Who was turning into a rock almost a firm as Poplicala. He was waffling a lot less and deciding a lot more, probably because he was staring to see more clearly. And he was not an admirer of Vitalis.

  Neither was Decidoratus, whom it seemed had been sufficiently scared by recent events to stop getting drunk every day. The man had always been a competent administrator, as long as he could see straight enough to read a report. Now, he was starting to show some of that skill. Londinium was a rich city, rich through trade. Decidoratus knew that they needed to keep Londinium safe and secure to make sure that the gold kept flowing – and circulating, which was the important point that so many missed. Well, they also needed to keep the naval patrols that had been slowly dying away along the coasts going. That was expensive. But Decidoratus had been coming up with some ideas here and there…

  Oh and there was Cornelius Felix. Not too much long before Aurelianus had been firmly convinced that the man was an idiot. However, it turned out that he had hidden depths when it came to trade, a subject that he seemed to thrive on.

  Which left two others. Gratianus and Furiuis. The latter was a mediocre man with a mediocre mind, and he was also starting to come under the influence of Vitalis, which was worrying. But Gratianus – well, he had really astonished him. He was the warlord of the North East and he was taking his responsibilities and duties there very, very seriously.

  And right now he was clasping his hands together and starting to speak.

  “As we all know, the harvest was a good one in the South, but less so further North. South of the Wall it was… acceptable. Between the Wall and the Antonine it was barely acceptable. And North of there, in Caledonia itself, it was appalling. The Votadini, the Novantae and the Damnonii all attest to that, according to the latest reports from them.

  “And the Painted People will move South. They’ll have to. They have no choice. With so little food they’ll swarm over the Antonine – not that it’s much of a barrier with no real organised troops on it other than the Damnonii – and then push into Valentia. And then South to the Wall if they can’t get what they need from Valentia.”

  An ugly silence fell. It was broken by Vitalis. “Surely,” he drawled, “The Painted People are nowhere near organised enough for such an action.”

  Aurelianus looked at him quizzically. “They did it fifty years ago.”

  “Helped by the Great Conspiracy. But no such assemblage of idiots now exists. They could not do it again.”

  Oddly enough the next voice to be raised was that of Cornelius Felix: “They were not then driven by hunger. I have seen the reports from the North. The tales of the storms and the rain and the great tempest that hit them two months ago. Hunger is a powerful driver.”

  “Plus,” Gratianus said in a voice like hammered iron, “They seem to be led by a… maniac. A charismatic zealot has been going about them. And that seems to have struck sparks into the tinder. We must look to the North. If we do not… then we will suffer.”

  This time the resulting silence was broken by Aurelianus. “What do you wish of us?”

  “We must send a force into Valentia. One strong enough to defend it and to crush any attack by the Painted People.”

  Aurelianus and most of the others nodded, Marcus most keenly of all. But as he looked at Vitalis out of the corner of his eye he saw the man briefly smile like a shark. He was planning something.

  Chapter Six

  The dying man by the tree by the menhir was dead by the time that Athanaric wearily walked his horse back from the nearby river. He didn’t know what the name of the river was, still less did he know what the menhir was for. The Gauls had made them, he knew that much, but what they were for he did not know. Something pagan probably.

  He did his best not to look at the field to his right. Perhaps 500 corpses were strewn across it. It had been a long and nasty fight. But now it was over. He looked instead at Euric in front of him. The King of the Visigoths. The only surviving one that is. There was a spear in the ground next to him, and on its tip was rammed the head of Gesalec. Judging by the expression on his face he’d died in an extremely painful manner.

  So. The war of Alaric’s successors was over. The Visigoths were united again. What was left of them. Athanaric didn’t want to think about how many had died in their bitter little war over the past year or so. The various other ‘heirs to Alaric’ had been many – and had been culled quite quickly, until only the two remained.

  He turned to old Geseleric, who was watching Euric as he talked to a group of nobles. “How many have rallied to him?”

  “Enough. Just about. Give me time to kick the arses of those who are still reluctant. Unity will be the message on the lips of the singers. And then we’ll need to bring in the fools who have left to fight for Stilicho.”

  As far as Athanaric was concerned the sane had gone to fight for Stilicho, but he knew what Geseleric meant. He just didn’t think that the others would return. Not if they’d sworn oaths. And not if they knew that Euric was now king.

  He sighed – quietly. Alaric’s ghost was no doubt weeping for what they had lost. The Visigoths were a pale shadow of what they had been. And he wondered what would they have been doing now if Alaric had lived.

  Cato strode along the corridor towards his office, his boots echoing with every footfall. He had only recently reconciled himself to even having the damn place but now, with everything that had been going on, he’d started to hate the place again. Because it reminded him that he would soon be away from his wife and son.

  As he approached the door he could hear the low mutter of voices and as he entered he could see the speakers. Lucius Logarix was the tallest of the bunch, a lanky Coritani who was an able leader of his Turm
a. Then there was Marcus Strabo. His Turma was based around Ratae, and some of them had even fought in the Battle on the Beach. Good lads, all of them. Next to Strabo stood Gaius Cornelius Caractacus from Letocetum. Who didn’t talk a lot, but when he did speak his words were often succinct but wise. And finally there was Corcorix, looking young, calm and so very collected.

  “Good morning,” Cato barked as he strode up to the table that the others were standing around and then looking down at the map upon it. “We all know what we’re here to plan. So let us be about it. What are the current states of your Turmae?”

  “The Second is at full strength sir,” Logarix said quietly as the others looked at him. “The Third is slightly over strength, whilst the Fourth has replenished its losses from the battle against the Angles and is now at full strength. We’ve had word from Gnaeus Pomptonius and he says that his Sixth are about a day’s march away. Full strength again. As for the Fifth, they’re two days away. Lucius Galarix sent word that they’re over strength. “

  Cato looked at the map and then nodded absently. “And the First is at full strength and actually turning away some volunteers. Well. If they want to volunteer for the Cavalry then they’ll have to make do with the Infantry instead.” He smiled wryly. “Although the clever ones will be able to go into the Engineers, so that they can tell us how we’ll be obsolete in a few years, once they’ve been able to work out the last of the problems with their latest inventions!”

  Soft chuckles filled the room. Then Cato sighed. “Very well then. At least the harvest is over and the men can be spared from any emergency work needed to bring it in. Once we have all the local Turmae gathered around Deva we will be marching at once North. Straight up the road to Luguvalium to join that part of the Army there and then North again, beyond the Wall.

  “I cannot say how bad the roads will be North of the Wall, but hopefully our Allies there have kept them in reasonable shape. If not – well, we will make the best use possible of all of the resources there. My concern is the supply wagons. We’ll need all kinds of things up there – riding tackle, food, water, spare weapons, spare armour, everything. Find out which of your men are good at hunting. If you have to supplement your supplies that way, please do. But not at the expense of the local tribes up there. Exercise your judgement.”

  Caractacus stirred slightly. “Sir, will we be able to use the forts in Valentia?”

  Cato pulled a slight face. “Perhaps. Many of them have been abandoned for years. And despite promises to the contrary, I’d be surprised if any of them hadn’t been ransacked at some point for what was in them. The Great Conspiracy was a disaster for the North. And, especially for Valentia. Remember that. We’re heading into an area that hasn’t seen firm control for almost 40 years. What things should be like might not be the same as what they’re actually like. Be mindful of that.”

  There was a general nodding of heads. Cato looked around the group with a half-smile. “Very well then. I’ve also been told that the families of those men with wives will be paid half the pay due to their husbands. In other words they will not lose any coin. And know this as well. We have to campaign North of the Wall. It is more than our duty, it is what we must do to maintain the North as we know it. A strong North means a prosperous South. And know this also: I will bring as many men South as I can. All of them if I can. We will be in battle, I have no doubt of that. But I will do my best to bring as many of you home as possible. You have my word on that.”

  There was a moment of silence and then every man who faced him thumped his breastplate with his fist and saluted him.

  Chapter Seven

  “This is the one time when I am almost glad that your mother isn’t here to see you. She’d be torn between pride and frantic worry.” Aurelianus sighed as he looked at his only child. His son looked quite the young Roman officer, clad in armour and with a red cloak fastened with a cloak pin in the shape of a dragon. His red-plumed helmet was under his right arm.

  “I wish I had more memories of her, Father,” Aurelianus the Younger said with a sigh. “I know how much you miss her.”

  Aurelianus felt his face quirk into a wry smile. “There isn’t a day goes by without me missing her. Well. She’d be very proud of you if she was here. And then she’d have made my life a misery by complaining about how I’d let you go to war without me looking after you.”

  “Father,” his son interrupted, “It’s alright. You have to stay here. Someone has to keep an eye on the South. And Vitalis.”

  A sigh ripped its way out of his chest. “I know. I don’t trust that man an inch and he’s planning something. I can feel it.”

  “Then you belong here. Making sure we have a home to return to. Talking to the others on the Council. Thwarting Vitalis from whatever he has planned.”

  Aurelianus nodded and then straightened slightly and looked at his son. The boy had a good head on his shoulders. And he was fast getting an appreciation for the complex shoals of politics.

  “Remember this: you are going North for experience, to see what war can be like. That’s something I cannot teach you. Until you have seen war, in entrails and blood, you cannot understand it. And… it will change you. You will not be the same when you return. And make sure that you do return.

  “Listen to Cato. He’s the best cavalry commander that I’ve ever met. And listen to Poplicala. He’s an old soldier and he’s campaigned on battlefields that you can’t imagine. Between the two of them, well, what they don’t know about war isn’t worth knowing.”

  He leant forwards and grasped the shoulders of his son. “And come home safe my son. Watch, listen, learn. And come home safe.”

  Constantius squinted into the Westerly sun and then smiled slightly as he rode down the road at the head of a Turma of his cavalry. It had been a long day and he was pleasantly tired. Better still he would be back in Lutetia by sundown. It wasn’t quite as opulent as Augusta Treverorum, but it was a good local centre for quiet meetings. For quiet plotting as well.

  There was a lot to be done. Stilicho’s plan to settle the thrice-damned Visigoths in Gaul had to be killed off before it could gather itself and flap its wings. That damn man wanted to settle them behind the Limes along the Rhenus. On the face of it, the plan made sense. When you looked deeper at it however, it was a disaster waiting to happen.

  He didn’t trust the Visigoths. He didn’t trust them a single solitary bit. Alaric had been an untrustworthy, avaricious, greedy, bastard. Granted, life had given him a shitty string of dice throws, but Alaric’s actions had led to a steady weakening of Rome’s authority. He hadn’t shed any tears when he’d heard of Alaric’s death at Mogontiacum.

  And then had come the Visigothic civil war. That had caused chaos in the parts of Gaul where the Visigoths had been stationed. People had been killed, villages had been sacked, towns had been threatened and crops had been destroyed. And Stilicho’s reaction had been… to step aside and let the war go ahead. Because the Visigoths were ‘Allies’. Because Rome had to let them work through their internal political battles. And, most of all, because their internal war weakened them. Made them vulnerable. Made them pliable. And now they were led by an idiot called Euric, who was the palest of shadows when compared to someone like Alaric.

  But even weakened, even with an idiot as their king, they were still a potential threat. And when had they last settled in an area? Farmed – properly? Would they really integrate into Gaul, or would they try to eventually break off and set up their own kingdom? In Gaul, or somewhere else?

  He couldn’t take the risk. There was too much at stake. Stilicho was wrong on this matter, but he wouldn’t listen to reason. He couldn’t see sense on this. He thought that the Visigoths had been ground into the dirt and that they could now be controlled. Well, he was wrong. And Gaul was now at risk.

  Constantius flicked his reins and encouraged his horse into a slightly faster pace. Well, he had to protect Gaul. And if that meant that the Visigoths were split into a thousand fragments
then that would be a good thing. Because it meant that they could be crushed at the first sign of resistance. And as for Stilicho, he needed to write to some influential people in Ravenna and Rome itself. That man needed his wings clipped.

  Chapter Eight

  The line of men on horses, interspersed with marching men on foot, stretched far behind him and he felt a strange combination of pride and worry at the sight. Pride at the thought of being in charge of this impressive force. Worry at the thought of what lay ahead of them. War. No man with any sense in his head wanted it. Especially not a man with a beautiful wife and a young son.

  Cato adjusted the strap on his helmet slightly and then frowned. Valentia. He’d never been there. The Northern province lay between The Wall and the Antonine Wall even further North. Not that the later was much of a barrier, not from what he had heard. It had been built almost 300 years ago on the orders of Antonius Pious and hadn’t been manned for very long.

  Asking if it was still defensible was a stupid question. But the question of if it could be used as a breakwater was not. He sighed. And then there were the forts in the North. Hopefully they hadn’t been broken open and plundered the moment that the locals thought they could get away with it. Given the weakening of Rome over the past decade that might have happened. They had to hope that at least some of the tribes had shown some sort of self-control.

  “You seem deep in thought,” said a voice to one side and he started slightly. Old Poplicala had ridden forwards and was now approaching from his right, with Aurelianus the Younger besides him.