The Valentian Campaign

by Marc Jones

  By the time that the sun reached the highest point in the sky that it ever would that day and then journeyed on for an hour or so he was back at his tent and in a black and foul mood. Something was definitely wrong, but he didn’t know what. He’d seen some of the Gaullish forces to the North and there seemed to be too few of them. Oh, they were there and in enough strength that he was keeping a wary eye on them, but his thumb was still pricking and his neck had that itch again which meant that something somewhere was going wrong.

  “Are you well Magister Militum?”

  The question came from young Quintus Domitius, a staff officer who occasionally showed flashes of adequacy. He glared at the boy for just enough time to deflate him slightly and then grunted: “Any further news?”

  “None sir. More reports of Gauls to the North but no further reports of additional enemy forces. Whatever’s out there is being very cautious.”

  “This makes no sense!” He looked down at the map. “If they were going to spring a trap then they should have already, before we moved into line. If they attack now then we will at the very least hold them.”

  “Perhaps they are waiting for reinforcements?”

  This was not on the face of it a bad question. But as he mulled it he shook his head. “No. They knew that we were coming. I know Constantius – he would have concentrated his forces as soon as Spring came, to move against our invasion. No, he’s up to something. I just cannot think what. Yet, anyway.”

  He stared down at the map for a long moment and then he strode out of the tent, jamming his helmet onto his head as he marched. As he did he paused. Lugdunum. That had to factor into it somehow. And then he frowned as someone on the walls of the city blew a horn. A Buccina? Maybe. A signal? Definitely. But for what?

  Stilicho strode forwards so that he could scan the lines of men to the North. What was the signal for? For what purpose? He drummed his fingers on the hilt of his scabbarded sword for a moment as he looked up and down the line. Failing to see anything he looked West towards Lugdunum. Nothing. What was that damn signal for?

  Hearing quick footsteps behind him he turned to see a pale faced Domitius approaching. “Magister Militum! There is movement – to the South!”

  He felt the blood drain from his face. “Show me!”

  Constantius looked to his left and then to his right. He was still twanging from the tension of the past half day of hiding in the forests and hills to the South-East of Lugdunum. There had been a few times when he’d been afraid that a Roman scout would literally trip over some of the men. There had been far too many close calls for the good of his nerves. But the scouts’ failure to spot them had meant that their scouting had been desultory at best. No, Tetricus seemed to have done a superb job of keeping Stilicho’s eyes to the North. And now the signal had come – Stilicho had taken the bait and had aligned his army facing North.

  Well, now it was time to close the trap. He raised a sword and then pointed it North, straight at the rear of the Roman army. He looked left and right as the long lines of men and cavalry started to move. His heart was pounding but his mind was very clear. Every hung on this. This field of battle. These men. This day.

  “Onwards! For Gaul!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Stilicho reined his horse in and glared South. Damn them! Damn them all! He should have all the scouts that looked at their Southern flank executed for stupidity! But he had to give the Gauls their due. They’d kept his eyes fixed on the North. His attention on the North.

  He ground his teeth in fury and then looked at the enemy. Lines of infantry interspersed with cavalry. Flexible. And in better order than he might have thought. Constantius had been a very busy man indeed. Damn him as well.

  He looked at his own forces, which were starting to notice that something was going to the South and pulled a face. In the books he’d read about past generals there always seemed to be time for someone to give a speech littered with rhetorical flourishes. He’d always thought that to be rubbish and now he definitely knew it to be total pigswill.

  No, now he had to throw the dice and make some sacrifices. Issuing orders was one thing, but getting those orders delivered was another thing – and it would take more time. Time was his enemy now. He had no time to give pretty speeches – he had an army to save.

  “Messengers! All messengers to me now! Officers and messengers!”

  Men ran to him, with eyes that were too wide for his ease of mind. He had to be careful now. Panic would not be a good thing to spark.

  “It seems that we have guests who want us to dance to their tune. Well, we will not. Prepare the army to move at once. We’ll move and fight at the same time. We will move East, back towards where we encamped last night. Form shield walls - the men have been trained enough for that. The men must take what they can. The cavalry must stay close to protect them. We must move fast and we must move now.”

  He looked at the men around him. “Questions?” There were none. “Then go!”

  As they scattered for their horses and various commands he looked around again. For a moment he felt a flash of admiration for his enemy. This was going to be tight. Very well. He could handle tight. Provided he lived long enough of course.

  “Tell the VII to fall back as slowly as they can. And then have them screened by what remains of the Visigoths.”

  “Yes sir,” the tired messenger said as he saluted and then sped off on a fresh horse.

  For the watchers on the walls of Lugdunum the battle seemed to be taking place at the pace of a snail dragging its way across a field. Tiny men shuffled across the plain, outpaced by the occasional knot of officers on horses or wedges of cavalry. And then they saw it. The first sheet of arrows as they few upwards from a thousand bows. It looked like rain and the veterans on the walls shivered as they imagined what it would be like to stand under that deadly, terrible, rain. The arrows fell amongst the ranks of men opposite them, tearing great holes in the lines. And then the rain came again. And again. Before the cavalry struck.

  Stilicho watched him go grimly as the surgeon finished bandaging the gash on his arm. It hurt, but he had pushed the pain to the back of his mind. He had more important things to worry about, including how to save his army.

  Because Constantius was busy showing the world just how good a general he was. The enemy had fallen on the Southernmost elements of the Roman army – those men facing Lugdunum with an open left wing – and smashed it before Stilicho’s orders to pull back East had reached them. They’d fought hard and well, reforming their ranks Southwards, but the Gauls had brought a horrible combination of archers, infantry and cavalry to the field. The archers had been a particularly horrible shock. Foot archers could carry a longer bow than horse archers, so they had a longer reach. The first time he’d seen that black rain from the South he’d felt the blood drain from his face.

  Of course archers were vulnerable to cavalry and to other archers, but Constantius had created a mix of forces that created mutual support. Infantry for the archers to shelter behind against those cavalry who survived the arrows and cavalry to threaten the Roman archers.

  The battle so far had been chaos, a chaos that Constantius and his men had obviously planned for. Stilicho had no choice but to pull back Eastwards, fighting as he went and with each step of retreat Stilicho felt his anger grow. This was what Constantius wanted. He would be able to point to the retreat of the Roman army and use it to cement his own position.

  And all Stilicho could do at the moment was retreat. The garrison of Lugdunum had sallied out to join their forces with Constantius and there was the constant threat of those damn Gauls to the North. He was outnumbered and had to face facts. It was retreat or die.

  Stilicho set his jaw and then glared Westwards. Very well. Retreat it was. But he was going East with as much of his army as he could salvage. A small knot of frightened-looking infantrymen hurried past him and he looked at them. “STOP!”

  They literally froze in place like terrified ra
bbits facing a hunting dog with very large teeth. “Which Legion are you from, lads?”

  The oldest looking of them braced shakily to attention, followed by the others. “The V Iovia, sir!”

  He looked at them, noting the fact that the smallest wore a helmet that was far too large for him. “Why are you not with the rest of the Legion?”

  They collectively looked shifty. “We got separated sir.”

  “I see.” He smiled slightly at them. “This is your first battle, correct?”

  They all nodded, which caused the little one with the huge helmet to clutch at his head to stop it from losing its protective covering.

  “Battles are always confusing. Do your best to stay with the others. Your lives depend on them – and they depend on you. Now – the V Iovia are to the North-East of here. Trot there and join them - but don’t run. Running will tire you out and you’ll need your strength to fight. Right?”

  They all once again nodded, with more confidence and less panic than before.

  “Off you go – and don’t run!”

  They trotted off obediently and he sighed to himself as he watched them. Boys. He was leading boys. Then he set his jaw again and looked around the battlefield. He would do this. He’d lead his boys – his men – out of this. Yes, they’d taken savage losses already and would lose more yet, but he’d get as many as he could out of the jaws of this trap that he’d gotten them into. He owed them that. “Orderly? Reports! All officers’ reports to me now!”

  It was starting to rain a little by the time that Constantius rode through the Eastern Gate of Lugdunum. He was hungry and he should have been tired but the cheers of his men and the people of Lugdunum were sweeping any fatigue away. They’d done it. They’d repelled Stilicho, chewing up a large part of his army. Yes, they’d had some losses of their own in the process, but they’d succeeded in their main aim. Stilicho’s invasion of Gaul was in deep trouble. Instead of a stately progression he had been defeated in his first real battle in Gaul.

  Constantius nodded and smiled at the cheers and acclaim, but on the inside he was busy thinking. Thinking about as hard as he ever had before. He needed a plan. His previous plan had been to get to this point and still be alive, but now he needed a medium to long term plan. Gaul needed a future. Gaul needed trade. Gaul needed an army, especially as Gaul currently now included Roman Germania West of the Rhenus. The garrisons on the Rhenus needed money, food and training, especially with the Ostrogoths now in Magna Germania.

  He’d thought about pursuing Stilicho East, perhaps all the way into Italy, but the way that the man had turned and savaged any attempt at real pursuit had soon dissuaded him. Stilicho was not someone to take lightly. He was a very capable general. He’d certainly proved that today. He’d saved parts of his army that Constantius had been hoping to crush.

  Dismounting at the Basilica he strode in, snapping orders as he went. The wounded to be taken care of. The prisoners to be well treated. Every weapon and piece of armour from the dead of both sides to be collected. Every captured or stray horse to be pressed into service. Food and drink for his men and the prisoners.

  Finally, when he had a chance to sink into a chair and think in a room to one side, he unfolded a map and stared at it. Although his instincts were to attack he knew he had to defend. Stilicho was heading back the way he had come. Pursuit had to be cautious, lest the damn man snap too hard. But he would pursue – to the Alps and not a step further.

  He traced the line of the Alps with a finger and then sighed. The South of Gaul was… problematic. Parts were ambivalent at best about the rebellion. As for Hispania, well the province was still loyal to the Empire. They didn’t seem to be doing a lot though. That both worried and relieved him.

  Leaning back in the chair he stared at the wall opposite. The dice were still in the air, he could feel it.

  The reaction of the men was still a surprise to him. Everywhere he went they’d fall silent and stand and look at him as if he was some kind of hero to them. Even though it was his fault that they were there and that so many of their fellow soldiers had been killed, wounded or captured.

  He stared into the flames of the campfire in front of him. He had to admit that he’d done well to pull so many of them out of the trap that Constantius and his Gauls had set. He’d only lost a quarter of his army. Looking down at his clenched fists he forced his hands to relax a little. A quarter of his men, perhaps a little more, were dead or captured. And hundreds of others were wounded, some slightly and some seriously.

  He should have read the reports from the scouts better, he should have listened to his instincts more, he… Feh. It was all very well to have regrets. It would be better to work out what to do next. Well, there was no doubt in his mind. Back the way they had come. Constantius had the advantage here, his damn cavalry would be around them like flies on a wounded man. No, back to the Alps, back to Alpes Maritimae and the safety that the province held. There they’d lick their wounds, see to the gaps in their ranks and work out what to do next.

  The court worried him. The jackals that surrounded Honorius would be dripping poison into the man’s ears. About how he had failed. About how untrustworthy he was, because of his Vandal father. He rubbed at his chin and then closed his eyes for a long moment. He was still balanced on that damn sword, but the sword was getting awfully thin.

  Hearing voices to one side he looked up. A dusty messenger was standing there in front of him. He looked as if he was about to fall over from weariness but had an odd, strained look about him, as if he was afraid that he was about to bolt and run away.

  “Speak.”

  “Magister Militum, I bear a message for you. A very important and secret message.”

  Stilicho looked around at the officers and soldiers around him. “I keep no secrets from my men. Not now. Not ever. What is this message?”

  The messenger looked around with more than a trace of nervousness and then sighed slightly and straightened up. “Magister Militum I have brought this message from Ravenna. It was entrusted to me by your wife.” He pulled an oiled package out of his satchel and handed it over to him.

  Stilicho undid the covering and then looked at the folded parchment inside with a frown. It was sealed with the impression of the ring that he had indeed given Serena. Flexing the parchment sharply he broke the seal with a crisp snap and then unfolded it so that he could read it.

  As he read the words on the parchment he felt his thoughts slowing into the mire of astonishment. But those words were written in the handwriting of his wife. Serena had written this. And the irony was exquisite.

  He looked around at his officers and then exhaled noisily, before handing it over to Julius Valerius, who had a bandage on his forehead and a tired look in his eyes. That tired look swiftly vanished as he read the message. “The Emperor is dead?”

  “Killed by a chicken, if such a thing is possible. According to my wife one of his chickens laid an egg. He was so proud that he cooked it himself. That night he fell ill and… well, he had effusions from both ends. A day later he was dead.”

  A silence fell around the fire. “So who will be the new Emperor? The son of the late Emperor? He’s just an infant!” The words came from Julius Valerius and each and every one of them was correct.

  After a moment Stilicho felt the weight of the eyes on him. He looked around at the others. “What?”

  Various men exchanged glances at each other. It was Gerontius, the commander of the V Iovia who finally broke the silence. “Magister Militum, those who are here owe you our lives. You are the one who saved us from losses that would have been far, far worse. You are the one who led us out of the trap. Where you go, we go with you. Even unto the end. Even to Ravenna. Or Rome.”

  The very air around him seemed to freeze. Stilicho sat there with thoughts cascading through his brain during that frozen moment. He thought about his mother. About his father, who had always extolled the virtues of Rome. About his wife, whose life was now at risk. About hi
s son, who was also at risk. And then about his daughter and his grandson.

  The frozen moment shattered. “We march on Italy tomorrow. We march on Ravenna. And then on Rome. We march to change the Empire.” He paused. “And I want to send a message to Constantius.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  The question came from Tetricus and it jolted Constantius out of the brooding silence that had fallen over him as they rode up the military road that led to Augusta Treverorum at the head of the long line of infantry and cavalry. He had been in what he had to admit was an odd mood ever since that hurried morning meeting with Stilicho.

  “Do I trust Stilicho? A good question. A better one would be if I distrust him. To which I would say no.” He sighed deeply. “It’s complicated, Tetricus. In the short term? Yes, I do trust him. His focus is on Rome and Ravenna and making sure that he and his family survive. He won’t attack Gaul again this year. In the medium to long term? No, of course not. If he can boost his position by trying to take Gaul back into the Empire then of course he’ll try. I think that he has far too much to do there, but I’d be a fool if I ruled out another attack.”

  Tetricus nodded somberly. “Do you think he can succeed?”

  “Become Emperor? Certainly. He has the only field army that Rome possesses outside the garrisons on the Limes to the North of Italy and I think that he’s finally worked out what needs to be done. Beyond that…” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. If he’s sensible he’ll concentrate on holding Italy and North Africa and the Western part of the Limes on the Danubius. Let trade flow, build as much as possible and reform the currency. Silver coins used to once actually contain silver.”

  He shook himself slightly. “We have our own work to do. Gaul must be protected. Sooner or later the Ostrogoths will move Westwards again and we must be ready to meet them. We have a lot of building to do. Rebuilding in places as well.”