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Gaius Roscius was waiting in the last post station before Mogontiacum. The former merchant and post rider sat quietly, rolled a little dice with the stationmaster, but drank little. He had been there a day, and expected to be there for little longer. Sooner rather than later a rider would return, and then he would be off.
Hoofbeats could be heard outside.
“I guess you’re off now, Gaius,” the stationkeeper said as he rose from the table. “That’ll be Pollax coming in with the post for Mogontiacum.”
“I’ll take it from here, Manlius,” Roscius said as he rose. “And thanks for the placard,” he added, lifting the plaque hanging from his neck identifying him as an imperial postal rider. “I’ll bring it right back, as soon as I am done.”
“No worries, Gaius, I have more,” the stationkeeper laughed. “And when Petrus here wakes up, he’ll thank you too for taking his route. Fellow never could handle his wine unwatered.”
Roscius nodded and exited. He greeted the incoming rider as he had once done many a time, then switched the bags to his own horse.
“Any special instructions?” he asked.
“A banker in Argentorate gave us a scroll for his cousin in Colonia,” the rider said as he dismounted. His legs were stiff from the forty mile ride. “Its already in the bag for Colonia- nothing more you need to do for that one. There are two more are bound for merchants here in town. The merchant ones you give to the postmaster, and he’ll sort it out. Just don’t forget to tell him.”
“Thanks,” Roscius said, and swung himself up onto his mount. He kicked his horse into a gallop, and off he went, doing what he swore he would never do again.
He dismounted before the gates of Mogontiacum and gained entry. From there, it was a short walk to the postmaster.
“Post from the south,” he announced.
The postmaster was a squirrelly-looking wight who looked as yellow and dingy as the parchment with which he worked. He nodded at the rider, noting the new face but the old placard, then gestured to the pigeonholes filling a wall.
“If you want to remain on your feet for a while,” he said to Roscius, “you can sort it yourself. Otherwise it’s off to the hostel and report back in the morning for the post going south.”
“I’ll stick around,” Roscius said gruffly, stretching his legs as he took his bags to the wall. The one bag for points north he set aside for the outgoing northbound rider. The other he opened and began pulling the items out. He read the names and addresses then put the scroll in the appropriate box. There was a box-hole was for an official in imperial service, and two buckets below for imperial servants on temporary duty in town. Within minutes the regular post was sorted by recipient, and Gaius Roscius knew all he needed to know. Then he got to the two for the merchants, and fished the one from Tullius out as well.
“What do I do with these?” he said, interrupting the postmaster from his own tasks. “Two are for merchants here in town, the third has no name.”
The postmaster came over and snatched the three scrolls. He glanced over them, noting the seals and names on the first two. Then the seal on the third, and tried to make out the name. Then he shrugged, and placed it into a pigeonhole, confirming what Roscius already thought.
“Throw these two in the dead letter bucket by the door,” the postmaster commanded. “I’ll handle them personally.”
“I am sure you will,” Roscius said. Then he exited, having found his traitor.
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While Cadorus was exploring the Sacred Grove, the Germanic kings were holding a council of war. Their victory had given them a bit of euphoria, but that euphoria was wearing off as they buried their dead. They had lost at least five men for every Roman brought down overall. The Bructeri had lost a thousand, and the Marsi two thousand. Ricgard lost two thousand as well, while the Cherusci had suffered the worst- when Otho went down, four thousand of his warhost went down with him. Together they numbered thirty two thousand, just over what was inside the four dirtpiles. What kept the Romans there, Udo was explaining to Horobard, was those thirty two thousand, plus the sixty-two thousand Horobard brought. Together they numbered almost a hundred thousand- enough to keep the Romans penned until they were too weak to defend themselves.
“That could take weeks, Udo,” Horobard scoffed. “We do not have weeks. We Chatti came, almost at the run, to help you drive the Romans from your lands as we promised we would. We too must eat- and a hundred thousand mouths will eat these forests bare in less than a week. Then it is we who starve, and they who are strong.”
“Your suggestion of leaving a token force here then overrunning the Roman province is flawed,” Ricgard said, standing proudly among this collection of kings. “While I do not disagree that we could easily overrun what little remains in the Roman province or even that beyond, I do violently disagree with leaving a token force here. It is suicide.”
“They are trapped,” scoffed Horobard. “They are going nowhere. They sit and eat their bread, while we sit out here and long for a bite of anything once running on four legs.”
“They are trapped now,” Ricgard reminded him. “But if you take your Chatti and Suevi to the Roman side of Father Rhein, those remaining will be too weakened to defend properly. The Romans, Horobard- their fortresses are not isolated. They can assemble in one and make a concentrated push. They can break out and destroy the remainder piecemeal. With overwhelming force, they cannot even make the attempt.”
“They do not have to,” Segestes of the Suevi said. “They sit in those dirtpiles and eat, while we out here starve. They will win by default. Horobard is correct- we have too many in one place. We must send some away. Where better to send them than across Father Rhein?”
“My Marsi and Ricgard’s Chauci are sending wheat and cattle,” Calor said with a sigh. “But Horobard and Segestes are correct- it is not enough. But Ricgard and Udo are also correct- if we decide to invade the Roman provinces now, we risk letting these men break out. That could be dangerous. But worse, holding them penned here gives the Romans time. They are clever, these Romans. We must not give them time.”
“We must not let them break out, either,” Udo reminded him. “We are all doomed if they do.”
Horobard was adamant. He had an itchy feeling about this, caused by his memory of what the witch in his court said. A quick dash up and back was fine by him, but dragged into a siege? He would be away for far too long.
Was it this the Witch meant? That nagging doubt decided him. “To hell with a siege. You are right- we have too many mouths here. Mouths that belong to bodies who came to fight. So we fight! Let us attack on the morrow, and remove the threat their existence causes.”
“We borrow a ploy from Seval,” Ulfrich said suddenly. “We attack, as Horobard says. Two outcomes. One- we win and eliminate the Romans as a threat. Problem solved. Or two, we are driven off, with fewer mouths to feed thereafter. Maybe then the Chauci and Marsi food stores, plus our own, will be enough to outlast the Romans.”
“Or you could let the Romans feed you,” called a quivering voice from outside the ring of kings. The kings parted to reveal a cloaked figure stepping forward with a raven on his shoulder. Ricgard, Ulfrich, and Calor bowed their heads, prompting Segestes and Horobard to do the same, while Udo glared defiantly into the High Priest’s eye.
“Hello Eirik,” he said sharply. “Abandoned your Sacred Grove at the first sign of the enemy, have you?”
“I turned it over to another, one who is sincere about the gods and one I can entrust not to harm the Sacred Grove,” the High Priest replied evenly. “And I came here to ensure that you know I am no longer in it, and thus have no reason to try to burn it down ‘by accident.’”
“You mentioned letting the Romans feed us,” Segestes interjected. He did not know about this feud between a high priest and a king, but such matters bode only ill for this war. Best to keep that shunted aside. “How?”
“There are four legions in your noose, eh?” Eirik cackled. “Legions reside in stone castles, where they have their stores to last the winter. If the legions are here, who is in their castles?”
“They are empty,” Horobard replied, his head rising at the inspiration.
“Correct,” Eirik replied. “Except one- Vetera, across the water here and curiously, the closest. In it will be the summer’s stores for all four legions. It is guarded now by auxilia, and if you tarry, by all the auxilia in the province if that young chieftain commanding the province is any good. There, kings of the tribes, there you can strike a blow worthy of your titles. Take Vetera- the linchpin of the province, grab its stores, and destroy the last vestiges of armed force left in the province in a single blow. That will solve your problem- and you do not need to send so many either- maybe ten thousand, maybe fifteen- and the rest keep these cockroaches penned. After Vetera, take Noviomagus- it is not far. That is two storehouses in striking range, both relatively unoccupied. Strike swiftly, Ravens of Wotan, and victory shall be ours. The tribes shall rule to the seas, as Veleda once predicted.”
“The Priest speaks wisdom,” Horobard and Segestes agreed. Calor and Ricgard nodded as well, forcing Udo and Ulfrich to join in. It was unanimous.
Calor mustered his Marsi. He did not head west, though that would have been the quickest way had Father Rhein not lived where he did. No, he left the march west for Segestes and ten thousand Suevi and other warriors. Since Father Rhein did live where he lived, the fastest way to Vetera to the west actually lay to the south. Thus Calor marched south while Segestes marched west. They would both be at Vetera within a few days, and inside it in another.
Vetera shall fall. The prophecy shall be fulfilled. Germans shall rule to the seas!
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Gnaeus Pinarius Cornelius Clemens sat as his table with his stylus in hand. This being a formal occasion, he should have been wearing his toga, but since it was merely a formality, he dispensed with the unwieldy garment in favor of clothing more suitable for the climate. He duly granted the honorable trader Decimus Laetius imperial permission to travel through the hostile Agri Decumates for the purposes of conducting trade. Laetius, for his part, promised to trade fairly and to report any developments he noted among the barbarians. He was among the last of his clients coming to seek his patron’s services for the day.
Official business concluded, Clemens waved the applicant away and stared back down at the tablets before him. Two were reports from his legates that his orders had been executed and that they were where he wished them. The third was also from a legate, who reported by tablet he and his legion were at the postal station as ordered, and were officially reporting to the Governor of Germania Superior for duty. The fourth tablet made him laugh.
It was also a report from a legate stating that he was in position as ordered, but there was little pleasant about it. He smiled, and opened the tablet to read it once again.
Hail, governor Cornelius Clemens,
We are in the armpit of the province as you demanded. The river here stinks of shit and the natives here are not happy to see us. Gellius of the VII legion passed through not long ago, happy to be going to war. My men, however, are unhappy. They curse me- and you- for putting them on the roof of the world in the armpit of the province which stands high on the list of poorest duty stations. So thanks for sending us out of the way where nobody can get hurt on our arrowheads. We will hold an archery tournament in your honor, since there is little else here to do.
Titus Flavius Sabinus,
Legatus, I Adiutrix
He laughed again. That little man, the nephew of the Emperor, thinks he and his legion of auxilia-turned-legionaries were uprooted from Mogontiacum and sent to southern Vindonissa to keep them out of harm’s way. He laughed again, harder this time. All I need, little man, is the word to go. Then your tour of duty in Vindonissa will become rather interesting, rather quickly.
As if the thought triggered the action, a praetorian cavalryman burst into the chamber from the atrium, sweat pouring off the man as if rain from a duck’s back. The smell of him caused Clemens’s nose to ruffle in disgust, but the praetorian paid him no mind. He simply marched in as if he owned the place, plopped a tablet down on the desk, and stormed back out, his duty accomplished. Only the brief nod he gave a waiting plaintiff on his way out was not perfect regulation.
The tablet was sealed with a praetorian emblem. Clemens opened the tablet cautiously. It did not say much, only a single word, followed by a brief explanation and a signature.
Attack!
All deployed legions are to attack no later than the Kalends of Julius into the Agri Decumates. Do not delay. Logistics and supplies are already in place clogging up the Via Mala. Move now! Resistance should be less than you expected- many went north to fight Cordinus.
Titus Flavius Vespasianus Junior
Prefect of the Praetorian Guard and Commander of the Expedition
There it was, the order for which he had been waiting. So, all the training and foolish movements have not been in vain after all. Clemens had originally been highly eager to charge into the Agri Decumates; it was why he so wanted this province and literally begged the Imperator for it. He got it and prepared his men to the highest level of readiness they had seen in five years. Then, he was told to sit pretty while that slug Cordinus got first priority of men and supplies and crossed the river to a debacle. He did it again this year, frustrating Clemens immensely. Now, just as it looked like Cordinus would be reaping all of the glory- again!- he gets the orders for which he dreamed. Just like that, out of the blue, with no warning. They did not catch him totally by surprise, but they did catch him off-guard.
Clemens was not a stupid man. He knew the Agri Decumates were a spearhead aimed at Rome. It was going to be conquered. And relatively soon, which was why he wanted this province and why he trained his men so hard. Yet time and again, something somewhere else- like Germania Inferior- came up and thwarted his plans. It was the lack of logistics that caught him off-guard and unprepared for the order- no attack can be successful without a firm logistical base, unless it is to feed off of the enemy, which in this case is poorly fed. He had the men and the readiness, but not the supplies. But crafty young Vespasianus had considered that, and clogged the Via Mala with caravans of supplies out of sight of German eyes, ready to support his attack.
I will get my triumph after all, he thought.
Gaius Roscius had enough of waiting. He stood and knocked on the door. He had his evidence. All he had to do now was present it to the provincial governor and the traitor would be both exposed and executed. He was feeling good- Publius Sollus and the others could soon rest in peace.
“Busy,” came the mumbled reply.
“Its urgent, lord, especially if you just got the orders to launch your offensive,” Roscius replied.
The door flew open. Gnaeus Cornelius Clemens stared at him. “How did you know?”
“I am the arcanus who told Praetorian Prefect Titus Flavius Vespasianus that the Chatti were on the move,” Roscius replied. “And I have some vital information for you, too.”
“Do you know the headwaters of the Danube, arcanus?” he asked of the scout.
Roscius nodded.
“Then take this scroll and ride like the wind to Titus Flavius Sabinus in Vindonissa,” Clemens commanded. “You personally, arcanus. And your mission is to lead him and his legion past the headwaters of the Danube, all the way to the Raetian defenses.”
“But lord, I have vital info-”
“I have no time for anything else,” Clemens replied urgently. “The Old Owl pulled a fast one on me, arcanus. I was asked to send auxilia to the north. He has me train and move my legions about, without a word as to why- leaving me to think it just a practice for next year’s invasion. Everything I had received was to make me believe the north was the main effort this year, then he orders me to crash across the border the day after tomorrow with four legions. Totally without preparation, totally without orders. Just go. Well, arcanus, I have this night to prepare an order and some semblance of command and control for this operation, and tomorrow to execute it. Now make yourself useful- report to Vindonissa and guide the Imperator’s nephew to the headwaters of the Danube.”
“But lord-”
“No buts, arcanus,” Clemens said sternly. “I have too little time. Now move it, son, or I will have you jailed for interfering with imperial business.”
“Yes, lord,” Roscius said dejectedly. He took the scroll and moved out sharply. Rome was going to war- and it was not with the lads up north. There was a traitor in the province, but it seemed he only set up the boys up north- not the ones here. Maybe a man who tried to make his own attack easier? A triumph...
Roscius had little time, too. He had a long ride to Vindonissa and a short time to get there. At least he could earn the trust of the Imperator’s nephew on this mission. Then the traitor would pay dearly. Especially since the Imperator’s nephew was supposedly such good friends with the boys getting screwed up North.
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