The Valentian Campaign

by Marc Jones

  There was a further question. What if Strabo’s machinations in Rome failed? What if he failed to take the place of Stilicho and worked out a compromise agreement based on common sense? What if Stilicho maintained his position, against the odds, and instead somehow defeated Strabo and attacked Gaul?

  What if everything, the entire plot, fell apart? He gnawed at a thumbnail for a moment and then he clenched a fist. Well. There was no choice now. He was committed. They were committed. And if need be, when it came down to it, Gaul would stand alone. He looked at the map and then nodded. He needed to start organising even more than he had been before. They needed more men. They needed more money. The trade agreements with Hispania still stood. In fact he wouldn’t interfere with anything remotely trade-related. Especially not with places like Massilia or Britannia.

  The latter was not something that worried him especially, not at the moment. He’d written to Aurelianus about the rebellion. He’d done his best to hint at the reasons behind it. His old friend should be able to work out the real causes. And even after the recent victories of the Army of Britannia in Valentia the situation was still too volatile for anyone to risk an attack on Gaul. He smirked slightly. Stilicho had very, very, few friends anywhere North of Lugdunum. If the forces in Britannia could support him and Gaul… well that would be splendid. If they did not and stayed neutral then that would be acceptable. He did not know what the wind would bring. The future was hard enough to try and predict for a few months ahead.

  He traced the line of his influence to the East with a hesitant finger. Too much uncertainty. Time to consolidate.

  They rode in through the Westernmost gate of Londinium at a fast trot. Cato led them, the Eagle wrapped in linen and strapped on his back, his eyes flickering around the guards at the gates who saluted him. Corcorix was next, the Brigante looking tired and grim but still alert. Then came Poplicala, Gratianus and Aurelianus the Elder. Cato was worried about the latter. He looked old and tired and above all worried. That letter had shocked him. Well, it had shocked them all.

  They turned left past the fort and the amphitheatre and then started down the long road that led to the Forum and the Basilica there. As they rode Cato looked at the people in the streets. There was a frisson of something in the air, he could see it. Anyone who looked even a little Gaulish was surrounded by a knot of people asking questions. Despite himself he smiled slightly. Any Belgae traders from Venta Belgarum were bound to be questioned more intently then any others from the South.

  As they clattered across the bridge over the little river that flowed South from the Wall he could see the Forum up ahead and yet more people milling about. As they approached he could see that the section of the Forum where the Gaullish merchants usually frequented was particularly busy and he sighed slightly.

  When they reached the Basilica servants came to tend to their horses and Cato grunted at the one that took the reins of Mars. Hearing more hooves clattering he looked over to see that Tupilius had also arrived. The man looked harried as he too dismounted and then clasped hands with him, nodding at the others. “Aurelianus.”

  “Tupilius.”

  “Thank the Light that you’re here. Cornelius Felix wrote to me this morning, saying that Marcus was ready to invade Gaul by himself.”

  Aurelianus felt his eyebrows fly up and he turned to exchange grim looks with the others. “And do what exactly?”

  “I’m not sure exactly,” Tupilius muttered as they all walked into the Basilica. “But I have a bad feeling about this meeting.”

  By the time that they arrived in the main meeting room Aurelianus also had a bad feeling, mostly because they could all hear the sound of raised voices from the room yards away in the corridor.

  Marcus and Decidivatus were confronting each other from opposite sides of the table, with the occasional red-faced intervention from Decidoratus. As Aurelianus and the others strode into the room the three subsided into their chairs and looked at the newcomers with variations of scowls.

  “I see that the news of the revolt in Gaul has spread,” Gratianus said dryly as he took his seat. “May I ask what has caused you to lose your tempers?”

  “There is some disagreement about how we should be reacting to this unexpected news,” Vitalis drawled. He was dressed in a leather riding cuirass and had obviously arrived not long before. He also seemed to be surreptitiously massively amused by the whole thing.

  Marcus sprang to his feet, glared at everyone and then slammed his right fist on the table. “It’s obvious what we have to do! Constantius has had the guts to confront Stilicho – so we gather the Army and we support him as best we can! In battle!”

  This provoked Decidivatus, who also got to his feet. “That is insanity speaking! We aren’t strong enough to get involved in Gaul, on either side! Besides Constantius has revolted against not just Stilicho but Rome! He is a traitor – and yet you want to help him?”

  Marcus turned red with anger. “Stilicho is the traitor! He is a half-barbarian usurper who has been guiding the Empire in the West to ruin! Why can you not see that?”

  “I hold no love for that damn man, as you well know Marcus! But we cannot intervene!”

  This seemed to enrage Marcus even more. “And why not??”

  “Because,” Aurelianus said in a loud, stern voice, “We don’t have the strength. We barely had enough to stop the Painted People in the North and stabilise the borders of Valentia. We are very well set up for cavalry but we need infantry. We have less than a Legion of men so far and a lot of auxiliaries, but that is all we have – and they are all needed here. Would you abandon the North or the West, Marcus? Would you strip the last of the men from the Forts of the Saxon Shore?”

  Marcus turned his glare to Aurelianus. “The North is secure! The Sea Wolves have been broken and the Hibernii are busy fighting amongst themselves! We can turn our attention to Gaul!”

  Poplicala’s fist crashed down onto the table. “The North is secure as long as the Painted People still fear us! The Sea Wolves are broken for the time being – not forever! They fled North because they feared going West, because of us! As for the Hibernii the more they fight amongst each other the more they will look East for a diversion and loot. We are beset. We are surrounded by bad options and worse enemies. We cannot interfere in Gaul!”

  “Rubbish!” Marcus roared the word, making the room ring. “By your own actions you’ve proved that the Painted People are no threat to us anymore – and I’m not even sure if that rabble were a threat before!”

  “Not even sure that – Cato! Show him!”

  “Yes sir.” Cato said the words with a grim intensity and then he placed the linen bundle on the table as he glared angrily at Marcus. “If you think that the Painted People weren’t much of a threat then you need to look at this.”

  “Look at what?” Marcus scoffed. “What is that?”

  Cato pulled out a knife and undid the twine, throwing the cloth open to reveal the golden shape of the Eagle. “See for yourself.”

  A stunned silence fell in the room, as all eyes fixed onto the golden standard that had once belonged to a full Roman Legion. Even Vitalis seemed stunned at first, but his eyes soon narrowed in thought, as if the Eagle was confirmation of a rumour.

  It was a grey-faced Decidoratus who eventually broke the silence. “It cannot be. It cannot be the Eagle of the IX Hispana. Can it?”

  “It can and it is.” Cato said the words softly. “We found it in the hands of a priest of the Painted People when they were besieging Alt Clud, a fortress of the Damnonii. I killed the man myself to get it – he and the men around him died to the last man to defend it.” He looked at Marcus again. “If you still think that the Painted People aren’t a threat then I suggest that you think again.”

  “I agree,” Gratianus said in a level voice. “We have stabilised the North, we have not secured it, not yet. Our Allies in Valentia have been given a valuable breathing space to exploit their positions. We need men on the Wall to sup
port them. And we still have greedy eyes watching us, from both East and West. Marcus – we cannot go to Gaul. We are too weak.”

  The appearance of the Eagle seemed to have stamped out much of the fire in Marcus, who could not take his eyes of the standard. Eventually he nodded slowly and then sat down, before looking around the table. “Then what do we do now? Gaul is in revolt.”

  This was a good question. Oddly enough it was Vitalis who answered it. “We consolidate. We protect this island. And we see who wins in Gaul. We cannot do anything else.”

  “’See who wins in Gaul’? Surely we should hope that the Empire wins there? Much as we all distrust Stilicho he still serves the Emperor!” Furiuis looked around the table in bewilderment.

  Vitalis fixed the man with a look of contempt. “When was the last time that an emperor was seen to the North of Lugdunum?” He spat the words with venom. “When was the last time that an emperor set foot in Augusta Treverorum? When was the last time that an emperor saw these shores? Fach!” He made a gesture of negation. “We must face facts. No help will come from Rome. Not for some time. If ever. And with Gaul in revolt what word can even come from Rome?”

  This time the silence that fell was a nastier one, with a harder edge. Furiuis was white-faced, whilst Marcus looked as angry as he had ever been. Poplicala had placed a hand over his eyes and seemed to be praying.

  Aurelianus looked around the table and then swallowed. “Constantius is an old friend of mine,” he said quietly and then felt several intent looks being directed at him. “He wrote to me, to explain why he has done what he has done. I do not condone his actions. But I can understand… why he did what he has done. Stilicho wanted to settle what remains of the Visigoths to the West of the Rhenus. And he has allowed the Ostrogoths into Magna Germania. With Goths potentially on both sides of the Rhenus… well you can see why Constantius decided that Stilicho can’t be trusted any more.”

  “Holy Christ,” muttered Decidivatus. “Is Stilicho insane? The Goths cannot be trusted!”

  “I suspect,” Aurelianus said dryly, “That Stilicho’s attention is focussed on the short-term threat rather than the long-term threat. It’s easier to take your eyes off the wolf on the horizon when there’s a bear in front of you that wants to eat you.”

  “That still leaves the fact that we are cut off from the rest of the Empire,” Cato said quietly. Then he took a deep breath before smiling wryly. “I almost wasn’t posted here. There was some talk of me going to Mogontiacum. But here is where I was sent and it is here that I will make my stand. I have a Britannian wife. And we have a son. We will have to see what happens in Gaul. But we must also prepare for the worst. We might be cut off from the Empire for some time to come. So – we must make our stand here. All of us. Because there is nothing else that we can do.”

  Aurelianus looked around the room. Somewhere outside, in the distance, someone was playing on the tibia utricularis and he smiled bleakly at the lonely but martial noise that it made. “Well said. Here we stand.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It was raining again. Why did it always seem to rain whenever he came to Rome? Stilicho sighed as he stared out of the window. At least no one had so far stuck a dagger in his side. Yet. When he had rode in through the Salarian Gate he had heard the muttering directed at him.

  He looked at the roofs that stretched ahead of him and he thought about who must have looked out over similar scenes in Rome at such difficult times. Constantine the Great. Marcus Aurelius. Augustus, after the disaster in the Teutoburg Forest. Julius Caesar himself. Cicero.

  Despite his dark thoughts he smiled slightly. Apparently a distant descendant of Cicero was commanding a Legion of cavalry (what an interesting concept!) in Britannia at the moment. Then the smile faded. Britannia was a long way away at the moment. On the other side of Gaul.

  Hearing soft footsteps behind him he turned – and then relaxed. His wife Serena was approaching. As she joined him at the window she inspected his face worriedly. “You look tired Flavius.”

  He laughed softly and then kissed her lips gently. “I am so very tired. Talking to the Senate tends to have that effect on me.”

  “It did not go well then?”

  His gaze wandered over the wall behind her whilst he tried to find the right words to describe the experience. “No. It did not.” He shook his head tiredly. “They won’t listen. They never listen. They bluster and blather and shout about how I need to go to Gaul and crush the rebellion there, but when it comes to the question of money to pay for the Army… then it becomes someone else’s problem. They talk about the power of Rome and the need to keep Rome strong, but they will not pay for it, not in gold anyway, and they will not offer even any of their own slaves for the Army.

  “I feel like Sisyphus, condemned to roll that giant rock up the same hill every day, day after day. Some of the richest men in Rome are in the Senate. If they ever agreed to give up some of that money or to support the ideals that they mouth… well, then we might be able to get somewhere.” He shook his head again. “Serena, I am a soldier. I may be Consul at the moment again, but I am no politician, not really. The treasury is empty. Italy is full of huge estates but we cannot feed ourselves. I… I feel as if we are standing on a precipice. And I cannot see a way of surviving this.”

  Serena stared at him for a long moment – and she stepped back and slapped him across the face, as hard as she could. He stared at her incredulously for a long moment and then he glared at her. “What was that for?”

  “To wake you up! Are you mad? Think! Think your way out of this! Your son Eucherius needs you! I need you! The Emperor and his wife, our daughter, needs you!”

  He closed his eyes for a long moment. “I know! What do you think occupies my thoughts at night? I want to keep you safe, I want to honour the promise I made to Theodosius, but there is no money! There is no army, not really! I have some Visigoths who I cannot really trust, I have some Hunnoi mercenaries who I can trust even less and who will not tell me where their own people are going and I have some tattered remnants of the Legions that once made the world tremble when they cleared their throats!”

  She stared at him. “Our daughter has given birth to a son. The son of the Emperor. The grandson of Theodosius and the grandson of you. Our grandson. Go back to the Senate. And tell them that if they do not fund an army that can at the very least defend Italy then Rome will fall. Not today, not tomorrow, but someday. Frighten them, scare them, terrify them, do everything you need, but make them aware of how close to catastrophe we are. Shake them until the gold falls out of their pockets. And have that bastard Strabo killed. He has been plotting against you. Kill him, confiscate his lands, extract his fortune, use the money to train men.”

  Stilicho stared at his wife, who was standing in front of him as she shook with emotion. He could see fury in her eyes. And desperation. And terror. After a long moment he smiled suddenly. “I love you.”

  “I love you too. Now get out there and save Rome!”

  Nine of the ten Senators looked nervous when Stilicho strode into the room. The tenth was Lucius Verontius Felix, who looked magnificently bored with everything. Stilicho looked at them and then frowned slightly. “No Strabo?” he asked.

  There was a diplomatic cough behind him from Teia. “His hands and head are being nailed to the Rostra at the moment, Magister Militum. And his house and his entire estate are not the property of the State.”

  Stilicho grimaced slightly and then shook his head. “My memory is shockingly bad these days,” he muttered. “I forget all kinds of things.”

  The Senators stared at him in shock, with even the legendary calm of Verontius Felix shattered. Then the latter rallied. “Killed on what charge?”

  Stilicho looked at him coldly. “Treason.”

  The room went silent in the wake of that one single word. After a long moment Verontius Felix broke the silence. “I take it that you have proof?” he asked with his customary drawl.

  “Proo
f…. Proof…” Stilicho muttered whilst he stroked his chin. “Oh yes. Yes, we did have proof, didn’t we Teia?”

  “Yes we did, Magister Militum.”

  “It wasn’t particularly wise of Strabo to leave all those letters in that secret compartment in his study. It was quite well hidden. But it’s such a shame that whoever built it forgot to make sure that when it was tapped it made the same noise as the rest of the wall.”

  He noted with some satisfaction that nine of the ten went white whilst Verontius Felix’s eyes registered the faintest of winces. He was quite skilled at this. Interesting. “As a result we have the late Senator Marcus Caecilius Strabo’s secret correspondence. My, my, he was a busy man. Plotting with Constantius, encouraging him to revolt and telling him that once I had been discredited and killed off, then after Strabo was appointed the new Magister Militum, Gaul would be allowed to rejoin the Empire with no consequences for the rebels. That last part being something of a lie.”

  One of the senators made a chopped-off noise that might have been a cough but which might also have been a smother groan of dismay. He ignored the man. What an amateur. Strabo must have been confident to the point of arrogance in his plot to include such a man – Quintus Cornelius Macro was his name – in it. He looked around at them all. “Before anyone else asks, yes, we have all of Strabo’s correspondence. And that correspondence implicates every one of you. The only reason why you are all still alive and unharmed is that I need you alive.

  “As satisfying as it would be to purge the lot of you and have your heads and your hands nailed up next to Strabo’s, that would cause panic in the Senate at a time when we can’t afford it. So let me be very clear. The lot of you are to keep your noses clean and out of the business of the Empire. I don’t care how patriotic you might claim to be. As far as I am concerned you are a bunch of short-sighted idiots who wouldn’t know a spatha from a spear. But you have one redeeming feature. You are rich.”