Days 4 - 6
As Aurelian rode on his ashen steed, swaying from side to side, his thoughts were busy finding possible solutions to save the empire from its hyperinflation, poor military, division, territorial loss and imperial authority’s decline.
He would address and preferably solve all issues at the given time but it was impossible to do everything at once and thus he had to prioritise and evaluate the importance of certain things. And as emperor, the sole responsibility lay with him.
He couldn’t ask someone apart from his royal household or advisers or else his reputation as a decisive leader and military strategist was going to be deteriorating. The problem was that he neither had a royal household nor did he have any advisers whatsoever since they had been on campaign when the emperor died and not in some fancy whorehouse in Rome where one would frequently find the revelling bastards who nowadays called themselves ‘Imperial Adviser.’ But the emperor dispersed the grim thoughts on the sly rats of Rome, more important matters were at hand.
Glancing behind, a content smirk creeped its way onto the usually grim emperor as he watched the rhythmic up and down of dazzling helmets which extended as far as the eye could see and beyond the gentle slopes of the landscape.
The clattering armour of the Legionaries sounded like pleasant music in the Soldier Emperor’s ears as he almost danced alongside the thuds and stomps of the marching army, the horns played by the cornicens loudly vibrating into the air, announcing to any soul in a large radius of the emperor’s presence.
And so the Romans marched on and on and on to their next battle, to their next war, to their next challenge of survival, struggling to defend what they had and forcibly grasp what they hadn’t.
The next few days they made much ground on bone-breaking pace as they marched for more than half a day, only to slump down in the fortified camps along the road to Siscia exhausted and with aching bones and groaning muscles, the sole advantage and hope: The ever-growing distance between them and the Danube, the feared border between primavility and civilisation, between barbarians and Romans, between danger and safety.
As the two lines of chanting men trotted along the road towards Italia, the Praetorian Guard who had by now joined their rightful ruler on his way to claim his inheritance and empire, stopped three approaching children who ran ahead of an old frail man with very brown skin and distinct north african features.
The men around Aurelian speculated that the man was of southern egyptian origin, a presumption which would locate his homeland hundreds if not thousands of kilometres away from the dalmation province.
After a while, a young tribune by the name of Pilvius approached the emperor, saluting in a stiff manner before speaking in an arrhythmic strange pace and pronunciation: “Those villagers invite you, Caesar, to join their holy sacrifice praying for your well-being and eternal health.”
Smiling at the open reverence of himself, the more egoistic and narcissistic side of him appearing from the depth where he had locked it away, the emperor who tried to be humble jumped down from his horse, his purple cloak hanging just above the dry ground, it hadn’t rained for days, a strange occurrence in the normally rainy season of spring.
Escorted by a bunch of Praetorians and the 1st century of the 1st cohort, the elite of the 13th as well as a cavalry squadron from said elite Legion, the emperor made his way down the slope towards the small rural village whose name he didn’t even know, thus quietly asking the tribune who had established contact with the people: “What is this place called again?” A pint of shame accompanied the question.
Scratching his full brown hair, Pilvius replied: “It is called Arduba Caesarea, my Augustus.”
Relishing in the name of the village dedicated to his predecessors and the title he himself inherited or rather claimed in times of need, Aurelian trotted down the flat hill as more and more people appeared at the village’s entry, some carrying flowers, some pottery, some animals and one woman who screamed from the depths of her lungs even brought her child, seemingly as a sacrifice for imperial benevolence.
The spectators hailed their ruler who happily reciprocated their greeting in his full beaming glory in his purple garments and the golden ring on his curtly shaven hazel hair, levitating on his crown like a holy halo.
As the old brown-skinned man from before led the emperor through his little cosy village and showed him the main hut where he, the leader of those people lived, Aurelian wondered what was inside the man’s head, which thoughts were racing inside his old brain, what did he think of Augustus?
But unfortunately the young emperor would never know since the elder of Arduba Caesarea was approached by two short women and a moderately sized man who shared their leader’s complexity, possibly due to family ties.
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They conversed for a bit in a pannonian dialect unknown to the emperor who hailed from the urban region around Sirmium and not the rural strips of sparsely populated land away from the wealthy coast.
After some time alone with his Praetorians and officers, Aurelian watched as trails of smoke ascended into the sky and instructed Pilvius to go and ask the cause of the fire, a little paranoid that this might be a trap by his rivals or even by his predecessor’s rivals who still believed him to be alive.
The short man waddled away, Aurelian wondering whether anything about the tribune was ordinary or if he was wholly unique among the imperial staff.
Time passed as the soldiers laughed and waited, the fresh shadows of the trees providing the fatigued Legionaries with enough pleasant breeze and relaxation to keep them content and proclaim the short halt as a reward for their extraordinary stamina and endurance for the Empire’s sake.
Deciding that he would call the break exactly that, Aurelian jumped a little as a hoarse arrhythmic voice addressed him: “Augustus, the locals are preparing a special pleasant surprise for you!”
Thanking the man by waving him away like a pesky fly, Aurelian thought for a moment before he beckoned the accompanying Decurion, Marius Secundus, towards his grace: “Secundus, grab a squadron of men and find out what the locals are brewing behind those thatch huts.”
Saluting, Marius Secundus turned around and yelled at the closest men to follow him as he straightened his armour and glistening polished helmet before marching into the village’s eastern corner.
Once again, it took some time before the Decurion returned but once he did, he revealed to the emperor: “Imperator, Tribune Pilvius’ reports have been correct. The locals are preparing a surprise for your excellency but it would be in your interest if you didn’t know in foresight.”
Smiling at keeping his own emperor in the dark, Secundus patiently waited until receiving the approval to sit down, which he received after the emperor decided he’d play along and not ruin the surprise for himself.
A quarter of an hour passed as wine streamed into the officers’ cups, the Legionaries were enjoying a great swim as well as relaxation in the Lake beside Arduba and the local women danced for the exhausted men who cherished and clapped at the display of beauty after several days of straight marching and abstinence from women or alcohol, strict orders decreed by Aurelian to keep iron discipline.
*Thump* *Thump* The drums of the villagers thumped twice as a procession of finely dressed men and women appeared between two huts, proudly carrying a roasted lamb on their back on a blue and green coloured ceramic plate, the image illustrating Julius Caesar’s legendary victory at Alexandria against the egyptian local followers of the ptolemaic dynasty.
The plate assured Aurelian of the mayor’s origin in Aegyptus, the wealthiest province of the empire.
While the plate filled Augustus’ mind with rational, logical satisfaction at the proof of his thesis, the sacrificial lamb exhilarated him with emotional bliss as he basked in his subject’s reverence and admiration.
Screaming praises, reciting prayers and chanting poems for the Emperor of the Roman Empire, the people of Arduba flooded the emperor with their gratitude, showing them just how much they and many like minded loved him, the illyrian Soldier Emperor, one from their own ranks who worked himself up the political and social ladder to unknown heights for a mere peasant excluded from the equestrian, senatorial class.
Enjoying the first genuine appreciation by anyone since ascending to his office, Aurelian spent two whole hours feasting, dining and happily conversing with the local Illyrians, savouring every moment and every piece of flesh as if it were his last.
But despite the joy the emperor had felt at this diversion from worldly problems and catastrophes threatening the integrity of the empire, duty called and the unfortunately very real and very imminent issues demanded his undivided attention.
That’s why after two full hours of relaxation and pleasures, the army resumed its march northwest under the steady rhythm of the blasting trumpets and horns of the Legions, the golden eagle swinging in the hot humid evening air as the saviours of Rome headed for their destiny.
After marching at bone-breaking pace for the last couple of hours of sunlight, the four Legions arrived at Fort Radicula on the Via Pannonia, a reinforced settlement where the Legionaries could sleep well and without worries of ambushes or nocturnal raids.
Aurelian himself, as the law decreed, slept in the leading officer’s chamber since he was the first citizen of Rome and thus allowed to sleep wherever he liked. Of course he wouldn’t decline such a tempting offer to sleep in warm cosy sheets of a stable bed and not some kind of fragile tent with the wind whistling below one’s feet and ripping at the tent’s seals as if to expose the daring humans to nature, to show them their roots and remind them of their inferiority.
Without signing or issuing any edicts, orders or messages, Aurelian threw his clothes onto his chair and plunged into the gentle soft bed, the wool enticing his body as worries and doubts vanished from his mind.
The pleasant scents of candles, the dim light which they provided and distant cheering for a ‘6’ amused the young man, reminding him of his resolve, for what he fought and bled …
For what he would make thousands of other people fight and bleed.
Cradling in Somnus’ alluring embrace, hundreds of images of his war-torn past, the turmoil present and the bloody infernal future flooded Aurelian’s mind, annoying him to the degree that he once more wished that he had never climbed the social ladder, never become emperor, never taken all this burden, never joined the Legions … never been smart in the first place.
If I were stupid like the barbarians … would I be happy? Worry-free? Liberated?
An image of the eternal golden city flashed before his tired mind as both negative and positive thoughts vanished and a deserved slumber befell the destined ruler.