King Anthelm of the Juthungi and leader of the tribal coalition unrightfully invading Italia,

I hereby denounce you, your lineage and your whole clan for your treasonous actions in times of turmoil, plague and rebellion. You have chosen an excellent time to attack but made one crucial error: Not calculating for my wrath and might. Like the tide after the ebb, Rome will sweep over your lands and slaughter anyone who defied us in times of weakness, just like the Empire and Republic had done in the past after Cannae or Idistaviso.

Unfortunately for you and your kind, it seems that past losses and defeats do not strenghten but only embolden you into sacrificing your life in a suicide crusade for glory and wealth which will only end with your people’s annihilation, the one to put the blame on being solely yourself.

Of course my hollow threats won’t intimidate or force you to retreat but if you continue anywhere except northwards, rest assured:

For each step you take on roman soil, you will pay with blood. For each leaf you trample down, you will pay with shattered bones. For each house you raze to the ground, you will pay with pain. For each life you take, you will pay with death. Accept the demands or expect and dread fatal consequences.

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I am the judge who will either forfeit your pathetic life or grant you more years with your head on your craven shoulders.

Thus leave Italia and return to your barbarian strongholds and mud forts before Rome’s heel squashes you like the bug you are.

Without sufficient logistics and supply your troops will dwindle in numbers and spirits before defecting fully and fleeing beyond the Alps. This is no war to be won by you, leader of the uncivilised union.

Accept my gracious proposal and leave without bloodshed. No coin of gold, silver or bronze will be paid to your greedy bunch. No ransom will be paid for any classy politician. No land will be surrendered without a bitter fight to the death.

Fight the war you have commenced or retreat and live for some more time. Or watch the fertile soil you stepped onto turn into your tomb. And even if you do, I won’t resent you.

Because after all, you have a significant value to me. You and your men. After last year’s poor harvest, my hounds are starving and need rotten meat to quench their bloodlust.

Life. Death.

You decide.

By imperial decree, Lucius Domitius Aurelianus, commander of the Legions of the Danube and Emperor of Rome and her Empire.