Day 3

Thousands of thumping feet stomped onto the ground in rhythmic beats as the glistening roman column of Legionaries marched along the Via Pannonia straight to Aquileia, the iron gate, the unconquerable bulwark to Italia and beyond.

Beneath the heavy chestplates, the exerted lungs lifted and fell with the beat of each two-step interval, the white tunics only adding to the fatigue as the sun was singing down on the poor sods, happily incinerating them below its glaring visage.

The two columns of Roman soldiers trotted along the path in their disciplined, trained manner which they had all learned during the hard training they were obliged to partake in before joining the imperial eagle.

Proudly sitting upright on his ashen steed, Imperator Aurelian rode ahead of the army numbering over 18.000 Legionaries and another several thousands in auxiliaries, servants, clerks and trade entourage. All of which veterans from months - years - of campaigning in Moesia, Thracia and Dacia.

Trails of dust rose into the well-scented spring air, just like chants of war and fraternity echoed into the sky on the hot day, revealing to the content emperor that his men were in high spirits at the possibility of battling with barbarians who threatened the heart of every citizen of the empire, Rome itself.

After they had left Sirmium under great applause and praise from the populace who prayed for their emperor’s success and swift return, the Legions had marched without major obtrusions northwards on the broad road, a rare necessity which was required for the parallel formation consisting lines of men, artillery, carts, rider battalions and ‘burdens’ as the people accompanying their husbands, sons or masters were called.

Their first target was estimated to be reached in less than a week at best and 9 days at worst. Siscia, an important hub for the slave trade from east to west as well as an excellent mustering center for the seemingly undepletable illyrian, dalmatian, pannonian and norican troops.

Most of the cavalry battalions were levied around the city and trained within, as its strategic location in the heart between Dalmatia and Pannonia provided it with enough material to supply the endless needs of the roman emperors.

It was also the town where Aurelius Macrinius would leave the army and begin assembling, training and supplying new troops, mainly from his wealthy family’s immense fortune, a little burden which Aurelian smartly laid onto the man who wanted to desperately prove himself and could now either disappoint his emperor or pay for recognition.

But this was a discardable issue for later. First, the Legions marched and marched and marched and marched beneath the blazing sun, sweat dripping down their finely cut hair and woollen tunics which quite literally felt like ovens designed to roast the men inside.

The torture continued well up until evening when the troops were allowed rest after the bone-breaking pace the emperor had set for the duration of the first few days.

Rest being defined as harvesting, assembling and reinforcing material to build a camp from scratch with defensive ditches, ramparts and tents for the officers and less spacious tents for the footsoldiers.

Groaning, chopping and thumping of metal on wood animated the red-tinted sky as the quaking image of the distant fireball vanished behind the Dinarides, the last light of the fatiguing day which harboured great advancement towards the Romans’ goal shone through the recently formed orange clouds.

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Gradually taking on an acceptable uniform look, the fortified camp, the Castra, quickly gained its military characteristic as stakes were pushed into the ground, guards traversed the ramparts and camp in regular intervals and drunken laughter from the wine traders and shattering amphoras filled the slowly calming evening sky.

Despite being in friendly territory and still several kilometres off the danubian border, the fresh emperor allowed no cautionless acts of benevolence and leniency with the troops’ discipline and condition. The law - his law - demanded that a marching camp was to be erected every night for the duration that peril was in vicinity.

As the day ended, the emperor called for the camp praefect, his second-in-command as well as Legate of the 13th Legion, Aurelian’s elite unit of veterans and Illyrians, Marcus Aurelius Probus, one of the most skilled tacticians Aurelian had the pleasure to serve and fight alongside with.

Upon entering the marching tent of the emperor, the Legate saluted in the discipline common for the famed roman army, eliciting a nod from the emperor who was busy analysing the outlines of the area surrounding Lacus Benacus.

With normally unusual familiarity, Probus advised his ruler: “Maybe you should analyse the terrain once we’re actually in proximity to the enemy army since during our journey there, the Juthungi and Alemanni forces could have already marched further south- or westwards. Or in any other direction for that matter.”

Relieved at the brave sincerity his subordinate displayed, Aurelian sighed and laid back in his lion-fur covered throne.

After taking a sip from his golden goblet of wine, Augustus spoke in a calm voice: “I admire your untainted opinion Probus. I really do.”

Without explaining whether he’d heed his old friend and ancient ally’s advise, Aurelian pointed to a script which lay wide open on the table next to the map of northern Italia and reports from the various provinces around Dalmatia and the local governours who pledged firm military as well as logistical support to the newly crowned high flyer.

“This is a new decree, proclaiming that no peasant shall be harmed nor exploited nor threatened with imperial retribution under the premise that our dear Legionaries are known to acquire … let’s call it unrightful inventory from the locals.” Smiling at his diplomatically smart formulation, Aurelian shook his hand around awkwardly, a motion Probus deemed to be a sign to grab the vellum.

“I want to rule with respect, not fear. At least I will try to prevent it under all circumstances. But if force and might is necessary for Rome to prevail then I will contradict the decree or any other future improvement to our glorious nation.”

Coughing twice, the 13th’s Legate replied: “I’m sure that your highness has only the kindest of intentions, however force and might are bound to the state. They inspire and intimidate foes and friends alike. A necessary evil one may call them.”

Slowly nodding his head, Aurelian put his head onto a cushion behind him as he ruefully sighed, the image of an authoritarian future and nation already materialising inside his worried head.

“Tell the tribunes to distribute this decree among the footsoldiers. See to it that they understand that they’re not exempt from the law and abide by it, by my law.”

Feet stomping on the ground and arm darting forward for a salute, Probus excused himself and swore to carry out the orders according to the emperor’s desires.

“Wait!” Interjected Aurelian just as the 13th’s Legate was about to leave. “Tell my clerks that they shall bring Tribune Lar Aemilius Genesius to my office.”

Probus nodded and left his emperor and old ally in seclusion.

A good man … Probus. How long did you accompany and tutor me? A decade for sure. Longer?

Ah, I don’t remember anymore. I should really put less strain on myself.

…

But Rome calls.

And what Rome demands will be - must be - fulfilled.

One way or the other.