The Eagles of Avalon

We're back! VJ just put up his latest...

http://www.alternatehistory.com/discussion/showthread.php?p=1650189#post1650189

canonized: Thank you, sir! Regret the large delay. Wedding planning and other things are a big part of it.

Fulcrumvale: Thanks again, glad you're sticking with our story.

Chief Ragusa: Much appreciated, sir! Oh yes western legitimacy will be a big issue to grapple with.

yourworstnightm: As regular as I can manage. I have a few written and others mapped out so I'll work as much as I can on the writing.

Deamon: Hope you're ok, but welcome back!

Jalex: A little annoying, yeah, but now you can read all of VJ's future stuff!

June – August 493

The riderless horse galloped through the earthen gates with a solemn swing into the main courtyard, drawing with it the silent stares of the garrison. It was a grim reckoning of their fate, the last horse returning without the messenger. It meant that the west road was blocked and the Bulgars had truly surrounded the fort. The smoke and stench permeated the entire earthwork, reeking of corpses, disease, and suffering. This miserable-looking horse only added to the grim scene. The lost hope so compounded the soldiers that the officers themselves were lethargic in their urgings, barely trying to rustle the men back on to the walls, readying for the next assault. An air of futility seemed to sap the confidence from their very bones. After a three day siege, there was little energy left in them to hold on.

Iohannes exhaled a deep breath, holding back the urge to rage in frustration, letting the tension slowly ebb. He made a show of adjusting the folds of his mail shirt, trying to appear calm and unconcerned as he approached the horse, flanked by one of his hypèretès. Around him, the somber quiet was at last being replaced by a return to order, the detachment slowly whipped back into fighting trim. If it was their lot to perish, then they would do so fighting. After a long siege, however, they were surely reaching the limits of exhaustion. Provisions were dangerously low and steady attrition had worn down the fort’s limitanei to the breaking point. Hiding his emotions, Iohannes placed a hand just above the horse’s nose and then slowly glided along the flank, whispering quietly. He could make out a horrible gash where a Kutigur spear had struck and knew the horse would not linger much longer.


The general had been wrong, he now knew, trying to push back the increasing weight of hopelessness. The recurring thrum of the Kutigur war drums only reinforced the imminence of his own death. How he wished for a clean end, fighting honorably in melee, for he knew how prisoners were often treated, particularly those who had resisted so well. Much anger would be vented on his men and it was a pity that so little of their bravery would be remembered in the Great City. Vitalian would care little of the loss of one of his detachments, only the loss to his dignitas. It was Drobeta, not Vinimacium, he wanted to rail at the commander. The Bulgars were crossing here, where the Danuvian bend gave them easy access into western Moesia. Just as he had warned. Who would listen to a mere Epimelètès?

Now the war cries started, sudden and screeching, and he looked to the top of the wooden walls, watching the men scrambling up the earthen supports, ready for one last struggle. He could feel the vibrations from deep within the earth, picturing the thousands of Bulgars swarming around the insolent little fort. They had crossed in huge numbers and even after three days of hard fighting, Iohannes knew they had been but a pinprick on the giant’s flank, a tiny bandon against the raging horde. He wished Vitalian good fortune when his army met the main body of barbarians, somewhere to the south and east. As for his own fate…

The first ladders appeared above the north wall, and now the engagement truly began, the Bulgars favoring a close melee to ranged combat. There were no formalities now, no pause to pin down the defenders. It was down to numbers and a hard assault. They scented doom and wished to press their advantage. Each Roman soldier, well equipped with their leather tunics and spatha, fought valiantly to hold each breach, succumbing to numbers each in their turn. Once lodged on the north well, the enemy spread along the battlement, driving the defenders from each position until at last, there was only Iohannes and a knot of soldiers huddled in the open courtyard.

Screaming, the last of the defenders fell from the north wall, a gash in his right side. Directly behind him was his killer, a ferocious burly warrior dressed in hides and leather, who landed stiffly on the ground and brandished his long-handled axe high into the air, trumpeting his battle cry. His mates followed him and began advancing on Iohannes’ remaining soldiers with a mad howl. How sad, he thought idly, as he brought his sword up for defense, that one saw such violence in the approaching end, in the violent contortions of the barbarian faces, in their expressions of hate and loathing. A violent death never bodes well. With a sickening crack, his sword met the axe of the nearest attacker and he felt a searing pain travel down his right arm. From behind, he felt a heavy thud on his head and knew no more.

* * *


The Kutigur raids across the Danuvius in 493 did not represent a migration of the Bulgars; rather a major incursion into lands that were Roman de jure, yet tribal de facto. Moesia, the province bordering this river to the south, had been largely occupied by the Ostrogoth tribe for the last century. Tribal expansion to the west had reduced the barbarian population of this region yet King Theodoric’s failure in Italia had kept the province from being completely emptied. It also complicated the Empire’s defense in the Balkans. The static fortifications along the Danuvius had been largely reduced during Attila’s campaigns and had not been rebuilt, leaving weak garrisons to hold an array of ruins along the frontier. An increasing lack of cooperation with the Ostrogoths, ignited when the Emperor had held back from war with the West, hampered logistics and led to a greater reliance on unreliable auxiliaries. Those limitanei garrisons that remained were stretched thin, ill-equipped to hold back a major invasion.

The Ostrogoths, nominally the first line of defense, had been battered during their Italian campaign, and what little military force they retained was huddled around Theodoric’s new capital at Sirmium, struggling to maintain a claim to Pannonia and nearby territories seized from the Western Empire. It also allowed him to keep his distance from an Empire of whom he was growing suspicious.

For the Empire, the main Roman army, led by Julian the Magister Militum per Thracias, was primarily in Anatolia, putting down the last vestiges of the Isaurian Revolt. A sizable detachment in the Balkans, under the young Vitalian, had drifted northwest towards the Danuvius and reports of a large horde of Kutigur Bulgars. This large tribe, who occupied lands stretching from Dacia into the northeast, were attacking auxiliaries all along that part of the river. Blithely ignoring the formalities of an Ostrogoth Moesia, now virtually devoid of Gothic forces, Vitalinus established himself in Moesia Superior, not far downriver from the junction of the Danuvius and the Savus, and beyond that, Sirmium. It was whispered that Vitalian was to keep as much an eye on Theodoric as he was Djurash Masgut and the Kutigurs. Another inference was that Vitalian was setting up a Roman anvil which, once reinforced by Julian’s main army, would provide the blocking force to a hammer blow from Italia by the West’s legendary general, Remus Macrinus. These plans were quickly ruined, however, when the Kutigurs openly crossed the Danuvius.

There were three probes actually, though the two eastern raids, at Utus and particularly Durostorum, were small in size, perhaps five to ten thousand in numbers, primarily mounted warriors. It is possible that these incursions were designed to scout imperial defenses and distract defenders. While these would raid far and wide into Moesia Inferior, it was primarily the Ostrogoth inhabitants who suffered, save the loss of a few garrisons of limitanei.

The main blow, under Djurash Masgut himself, was reported as including almost fifty thousand – some say thirty to forty - warriors, infantry and cavalry, descendants of the vast Hunnic hordes that had held sway across Europe mere decades before. The heart of this force was light cavalry, ideal for the Bulgar tactics of feints and ambushes. Armed with the dangerous composite recurve bow, they were formidable on the field of battle, pouncing on and then eluding foes with experienced ease. With their houms kyupe, molded leather armor, they had speed and good protection. Combined with Kutigur heavy cavalry and infantry, they could hold their own against veteran foes.

By the summer of 493, Vitalian had established himself at Vinimacium, acting on information from Hunnic scouts. The settlement was also one of the best crossing points along that portion of the river. If the Bulgars did cross here, his force, which approached ten thousand comitatensii, could give a good account of itself, even if a fighting retreat was called for. It would be necessary to strike the tribal army as it crossed to provide the maximum blow. And from reports from many local commanders, the crossing appeared imminent.

Bulgar cavalry struck Roman detachments all along the river, confusing the general as to where and when the precise blow would land. In an attempt to discern more information about his enemy’s intentions, Vitalinus sent out Hunnic auxiliaries to probe the lands north of the river. Most of these, however, were quickly swallowed up and some, such as those at the ruined fort at Drobeta, deserted outright. It was these deserters that would unhinge the Roman defense. Demonstrating with a portion of his cavalry across from Vinimacium, Djurash Masgut descended on Drobeta in August and, under cover of darkness, began crossing the river near where it made a reverse bend to the south and west. From here, his army easily overcame the tiny Roman forts and began to advance inland.

Vitalian, perhaps unwilling to believe how woefully lacking was his intelligence, delayed two days before withdrawing from Vinimacium. By then, this was out of necessity, as new information poured into his camp that the Bulgars were not the only army with which he now had to contend.

canonized: Glad you liked the it! I need to drift back to your AAR to see where your inspiration takes you...

Fulcrumvale: Excellent, I love a good bang...

Vindicare: Awww, not that short I hope?

Lord E: Thanks...the characters have graduated into a higher level of ancient politics and now the East is much more of a factor in this story.

Chief Ragusa: Exactly, Thrace is pretty sparse and the Goths have a key role to play...

yourworstnightm: See, even with Remus' great triumphs from the 2nd part, the threats never end!

Avernite: Very shrewd, it'll be interesting to see how each party makes out...

Draco Rexus: Not too hard to catch up with my slowness these days, sadly, but glad to still have you onboard. Your assessment of the Balkans matches my own, it won't be easy for any army to triumph in that terrain, even Remus and his crew.

The last time he had entered the large villa, it had been furtively, scrambling up rocks and the low outer wall under the cover of darkness. Now he rode in openly, clad in his garb of office and leading his detail of protectorii, denoting his importance in the new imperial order. Selenus could still admire the soft lines of the Lucullanum, which sat astride a small island off the Campanian coast. Not much had changed since that fateful visit years before, save a little wear and his own personal growth. But the land and the buildings were the same, as if nothing had truly happened. As if they had never made a mad dash to this place…as if an emperor had never been released from exile.

These thoughts preoccupied him so much, that he almost ignored the figure gliding down the steps perched next to the western residence, trailing two deferent servants in her wake. In spite of himself, he felt himself tighten as he recognized her lilting voice.

”My dear boy, you’ve back to visit me?”

There was a certain scratching in the tone now, a sign of advancing age, and it was this more than anything that helped him resist that lulling voice, cause of so much mischief. She couldn’t quite display herself to the same effect in the courtly robes to which she was accustomed. The right younger woman would have been enchanting in the green-sashed tunica yet the Lady…it only made him pity her.

Mustering what politeness he could, he approached and bowed in greeting, moving his mouth in an adequate imitation of a smile. ”Milady Barbaria, it is good to see you well.”

Dismissing his words with a rueful glance, she put down the small myrtle she had been sniffing, letting it drift gently back to the tilled garden earth. Even turned away from him, however, she was hardly finished.

”A noble gesture, but I know how much you loathe me now. The usurper’s man, is it?”

Selenus flushed somewhat, but kept making small steps towards his ultimate destination, the wall and cliff top behind the manor. ”There’s little reason to bandy words, is there, milady? Fortune and you and yours’ deeds placed you back here. Mine is an inadequate witness.”

She laughed, yet it came off shrill, a sign he had struck unintentionally. Clearly the fall from power still smarted and she couldn’t resist this chance to lash out a little, now that he had seen fit to drift closer to her orbit. The more he observed her, the more he wondered how he had ever compromised himself so. Certainly, age had taken away much appeal, but Selenus marveled at how naïve he must have been, to fall so quickly. He had been naïve, he knew. But no more…

”If you’ll pardon me, milady, I have to disappoint you, for it is not you I wish to see…”

Barbaria grew pensive and silent, stopping now, as if some of her vigor had left. He could see the age more clearly now. Despite the comfortable exile, this was a woman sagging into decline, her webs and manipulations having exhausted her, particularly the final fall. Was she content to die here then? For she would, he knew, Remus’ mind clear on the matter. No Imperator with any wisdom would dare let out any relatives of the prior regime. They were prisoners, if loosely so.

To her credit, she didn’t follow him around the building to where the seaside wall sat right on top of the cliff face, not much use in protection, save for an accidental drop. The distance from top to rocky bottom could be measured in the hundreds of paces, where the waves smacking up against the shore would quickly swallow any remains. He could remember the nervous ascent years ago, trying to slip unseen into the villa for that fateful conference. The spray sometimes reached to the top in a cool mist whenever the tide came in hard enough. It was this that framed the scene with a certain shimmer. At the far western corner, where the walls intersected at a right angle, Selenus spotted his quarry.

It was an odd reversal now. How long had Selenus squirmed in this man’s grip, taunted, dangled him as a political pawn, to be used and spent as needed. He was rapidly going to seed, perhaps losing the will to exercise and maintain his form. It wasn’t so much that he was becoming pudgy as his skin was beginning to loosen on him, the muscle quickly evaporating. There were no attractive female courtiers to impress anymore, were there? Did Selenus pity the man even more than his mother? The man who had set him against his friends? Yet as Romulus turned to regard his approach, the haggard expression and bags under the eyes sapped what latent hostility he had mustered. This man had truly had it all, potentially half the world under his sway, and had gambled it away. That it was his own doing did not lessen the immensity of it.

”Ave, Selenus,” Romulus grumbled. Truly he had lost his will for confrontation, no longer carrying on the petty disputes they’d heard about, the demanding a certain imperial deference from their guards. Montmer, the commanding officer of the small garrison, wasn’t known for his patience. A few weeks in the less comfortable portion of the villa had quickly soured that conflict. And clearly it had taken some of the vitality from the exiled emperor. ”Come to gloat then?”

Selenus said nothing, still studying the man. It was intriguing how, though Romulus had clearly aged, his face would never catch up with his body’s maturity. It was as if part of him had frozen in that time, when Odoacer had first placed him here and then Remus had plucked him away. He would always be the lost boy. It showed in his expression, which came alive at last with a touch of petulance.

A seabird flew nearby, squawking its displeasure at their presence. Romulus looked up, a corner of his mouth curling. ”I can’t be too choosy in my company…Selenus.” It was as if the name itself was a hard thing to say, to admit that he was no longer a ruler, and this was not one of his subjects, with his titles. He looked broken. ”Little enough to do here, save gaze at the sea alongside my avian friends here…”

Selenus decided to delicately broach the subject. It wasn’t a social visit anyhow. ”Sad as it may seem, I do hope you haven’t done too much. One mustn’t overly tax oneself.”

The eyes flashed, and some of Romulus’ political acumen showed in his gaze, even if he didn’t turn away from the wall. By way of distraction, he pulled his woolen cloak tighter around him, weathered by days spent in the cool air. ”Are there are other friends around here than the birds?”

”The risky kind,” Selenus quietly said, trying to convey much without speaking. Tread lightly, his eyes were trying to say.

Romulus seemed not to notice. ”I am of little enough importance, just as it used to be. Your master was kind enough to slash my subsidy in half last month.”

”Provisioning a turma of equites here at the villa is a significant expense.”

”For my imprisonment?”

”For your protection.”

”And do I need protection?”

Selenus held back for a moment, trying to find the right wording. Part of him cared little for Romulus’ fate. He’d mangled enough lives to deserve too much consideration. Yet the politics of his survival were important enough, the outward impressions of mercy deemed vital enough to maintain. ”I believe that strongly with each passing day…Romulus.” The lack of titles said much about where both men now stood.

”You tire me quickly. What is it you want?”

”A friendly word, that’s all. Keep your conversations with your mother. And the birds…” He began to turn away, pacing back down the rock-strewn ground, having no wish to stay overnight in the same place as these exiles. They’d done enough to him. ”I must be off…mind what I said, Romulus. And mind your mother knows as well…”

”Selenus,” the exile said sharply. Something of his color returned, and Selenus wondered if the lack of energy was contrived. ”I cannot refrain from being who I am…”

Selenus nodded. ”Mind yourself, Romulus. I cannot either.”