The Eagles of Avalon

September – December 476

Despite the relative ease of taking over the rulership of Italia and the avoidance of any major transitions in Roman government and society, Odoacer was immediately beset by many concerns. Externally, there were the many tribal neighbors to contend with. The Vandal Kingdom had a history of raiding southern Italy from their territories in Sicily, Sardinia, and Corsica. Another threat was the Visigoths to the north and west. Early tidings came in late 476, when King Euric began making noises about the status of Provence. Having originally ceded this region to Julius Nepos in 475 – in exchange for full independence, Euric now saw an opportunity to once again press this claim, particularly with Odoacer being new to rule in the absence of the Western emperors. When the Visigoths threatened war, Odoacer, who had enough troubles on other fronts, backed down and formally ceded Provence back to the Visigoth Kingdom.

Another threat came from the east, where the Ostrogoths, under Theodoric Strabo, were eyeing the virtually unprotected lands of the upper Dravus. Though Roman garrisons of limitanei, forgotten and unpaid, still lingered. There were no armies in the region large enough to deter the Ostrogoths. Unlike Provence, however, Odoacer had no intention of ceding this region and war soon broke out mere months after the fall of Augustulus. Ostrogoth armies began to pour into the Dravus valley, aiming for the strategic settlement at Aguntum. Beleaguered, Odoacer had to act quickly to raise forces to fight Strabo.

The Ostrogoths moved quickly to take advantage of the discord in Italia​

Across the Adriatic, there was the ever-present opposition of Julius Nepos who, with Romulus Augustulus now fallen from power, saw his own opportunity to press his imperial claims. Late in the year he sent a message to his kinsman, the Emperor Zeno in Constantinople, who had conferred the dignity of Patrician on Odoacer and had received the western imperial regalia. Though he officially backed Nepos, Zeno would not provide military support nor did he send the regalia. For Odoacer’s part, coins issued from the Imperial mints at Mediolanum and Ravenna bore the image of Nepos, giving nominal recognition of the ‘emperor’. No tangible steps, however, were initiated. This satisfied Zeno and Odoacer, and Nepos was left to plead and plot.

Internally, Odoacer was careful not to offend any of the local powers and administrators on the peninsula, in order to avoid any discontent. In particular, this meant a certain respect for the prestige of the Church in Rome and its Bishop, Simplicius. The Roman Bishops enjoyed and diligently maintained a superior prestige and dignity amongst the various patriarchs of the Church. Since the Council of Chalcedon in 451, the Roman Bishops or Popes, titled the ‘vicar of Peter’, were embroiled in the Monophysite controversy. In addition, the Bishops in Constantinople continued to press their rights to equal prestige with Rome, which had been granted at Chalcedon, yet which Simplicius vigorously opposed. Odoacer distanced himself from these controversies and left the administration of Rome primarily in the Bishop’s hands. The Imperial Senate, which continued to decline in importance, was allowed to persist, though its advisory powers grew less and less. Beyond these local institutions, there did not seem to be any internal threat to Odoacer’s position as his first years in power progressed.



They leaned against the cool stone walls, enjoying the brief respite from the late summer heat. The corner also allowed them to escape the crowds of hawkers and citizens who bustled through the main passages of what had once been a magnificent edifice – the Trajaneum, Trajan’s market. Though the structure itself still stood, Remus noted glumly how few of the stalls were properly utilized. Many times they had to expel poorer residents who had sought shelter here, the forgotten humiliores. It was like this all over the city, he thought, as he enjoyed the chance to take some of the pressure off his weary feet. Around them they could hear the shouted languages of a truly imperial market, though less Latin and Greek and far more guttural languages than before, Remus sensed.

Since their return from the north, the field units had been swiftly folded into garrison duty, Remus’ own veteran cavalry unit now keeping an eye on the markets of Rome, their horses useless to them. In fact, their mounts had been one of the first things to be taken from them, given to Odoacer’s household cavalry units and were no doubt dying now in the war against the Goths.

”You think Aguntum’s still holding out?” he thought idly, coughing as he did so. The stale air of the market, even less crowded than in its prime, was enough to bother him. Around them the noisy reverberations of voices and footsteps echoed. Odors of exotic foods and crafts drifted past, a musty queasy atmosphere. The midday sun sent beams of light through windows and shrewdly placed openings in the ceiling, which served to keep the narrow passages lit. The occasional torch on the walls added their own glow to the interior.

Modestus didn’t affect to notice his words. He continued stomping his foot on the ground after another of Rome’s spurious rodents. ”Who knows? Strabo’s a pig and worse in the field I’m sure. Whether Odie has enough sense in his head to beat him? The Gods know, I don’t.”

Remus smirked. ”I thought you didn’t believe in the gods?”

Modestus replied with a barking laugh. ”Well, God then. Whatever the powers want me to believe, that’s fine with me. Gods, God, Goddess, it makes no difference. I like to keep my head firmly fixed to the rest of me.”

Remus smiled and glanced around the corner to watch a pair of old ladies wander towards some of the nearer shops. Dismissing them as any trouble, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.


”I hear we’re going into the field soon,” Modestus remarked innocently. The big man’s voice couldn’t help but boom out into the narrow corridors. No doubt if there was a Goth spy, Remus thought, he’d know everything before long. Remus said nothing, pursing his lips and keeping his eyes shut.

Noticing this, Modestus at last turned to his friend and commander. ”Maybe we’ll get our horses back…be worthwhile hacking some Goth heads, mind you. I want to tear my hair out over this place. Boredom is a poor word for it, too...Latin. Cities are boring. It’ll be good to go out on campaign again.” This time he looked over at Remus, whose face appeared wooden. Finally, he opened his eyes.

”I won’t be joining you, Modestus.” He let the words hang, looking up to meet the man’s eyes for a moment before turning away.

Modestus simply stared at him, as if the words had washed over him. ”I figure in a few days ----“ and then he trailed off, his blonde bear bristling as he frowned. Something in the way Remus looked told him that this was serious and not some respite from war or such. ”Not joining me…what are you on about?”

Remus stood up from the wall and turned to him, mustering what control he could find over his emotions. ”I’ve resigned my service, my friend. Last week, to Karek.”

Modestus spat. ”Karek?!?” That foul beast…the man’s a Rugian, no better than the filth on the ground. Why they ever made him an officer…Curses, Remus, why’d you go and tell him? I guarantee that those who shouldn’t know, now know.” Then his frown grew into an intense expression and he took a step closer to Remus, easily towering over the sturdy yet shorter officer.

”You want to know why, I suspect?” He didn’t blink and heaved a sigh that seemed to drain emotion from him. ”It’s simple really. I no longer believe in this army. We’re commanded by idiots and barbarians.” He instantly regretted the choice of words.

Modestus put his face right next to Remus’ and glared. ”I’m a barbarian!” he said, jabbing himself hard in the chest.

”There’s no emperor anymore, nothing left to call Roman. All I’ve done since Arretium is stand here and rot. I’ve fought in several major battles, and I’m a damned good cavalry officer! I’m used like chattel. They underpay me, take my mount, and spit on the traditions of our unit. You were a barbarian, Modestus. But this army made you Roman.” His face was expressionless as he said this. His broad face grew taut with the intensity of his emotions. Struggling to keep them in check, he glared back at his friend. He had known just how difficult this was going to be.

Modestus scoffed, stepping back and making a show of looking around him. ”These aren’t the legions of old, you know. Caesar and his ghosts are dead. We fight and we get paid, simple as that.”

”Then surely you notice we receive only a quarter of what we once received three years ago? And fighting? Do you honestly count the vagabonds we evict from the market as worthy foes?”

Modestus frowned and looked at Remus, his face unintelligible. Behind the Germanic features and facial hair, the man was a mask. ”We’re fighting the Goths now. They’ll send us into the field for sure. Good veterans like us. I’ve already heard the rumors.”

But Remus shook his head. ”Odoacer is a fool for having left us here.”

His friend paled slightly and suddenly looked from side to side. Then he pushed Remus hard against the wall. ”Hold your tongue, man! You’re the fool, shouting out in a public market. I’m sure the man’s informants are already writing down your words. What did Karek say?”

Remus struggled to extricate himself, but Modestus was holding him firmly against the wall, the stone rubbing painfully against his shoulders. ”He said…well, he accepted. Regretfully, of course. Asked me to serve out the month.”

Modestus released him and smacked his own head. ”A fool, a fool. You’re naught but a fool. Karek is biding his time, the viper. God’s Eyes, he won’t let you go! He can’t. If you go, the rest will follow. You know how the men respect you. No. Karek is simply waiting. He’ll make a move soon. You, on the other hand, are in danger. And for the dumbest reasons I’ve heard.”

To his own surprise, Remus laughed, which helped to ease some of the tension. ”You’ve always known my mind, Modestus. Some call me antiquated, old-fashioned. Yet I am a soldier and this is no longer an army. I have to go, if just to get away from this farce.”

It was clear what Modestus felt about this, yet he said nothing, merely shaking his head weakly. ”We’re not finished with this. But our shift’s over and we need to get somewhere secure. Come on.”

Modestus turned to walk down to the nearest doorway, and Remus made to follow. They were brought up short, however, by approaching footsteps, these sounding with purpose. In moments, around the corner came three men dressed in the gray tunic of the city watch, the urbanii. The one leading them, a pale man with a plumed helmet and smug expression, glanced quietly at the pair, his eyes gleaming. ”Good, so you’re still here. This makes things less…complicated.” He turned to his men. ”If you please, men. Decurio Remus Macrinus, you’re to come with us. After handing over your weapon, naturally.” His eyes gleamed, and Remus knew the man actually wanted a confrontation.

”What’s the meaning of this?” he barked in his best command voice. The man merely smiled, and the two guards were eyeing him intently. Occasionally they glanced over at Modestus, whose girth clearly unnerved them.

”I’m sure you know. Karek wishes to discuss the matter further. Come, come. We can be calm about this.”

Remus said nothing and simply stared at Modestus. He could see it already, in his mind, what was to come. They’d all heard the rumors, the disappearance of Pryopius, and little tolerance for outspoken officers. He had been a fool to think he could simply resign. He’d said it himself. This was no army, and there were no principles left. Remus could see what lay in front of him, if he went before Karek. Modestus must have seen it too, in his own thoughts, as his expression darkened. ”God must loathe you, dear Remus. But…” His hand suddenly flew to his belt, where he quickly grasped the hilt of his sword. ”Fleuhanan!” he bellowed, then catching his language. ”Fugi!” Run, Remus, his words echoed.

It all happened so swiftly. The pale man’s eyes widened and he swiveled towards Modestus. Every man was going for his weapon, Remus included. His view, however, was obstructed by his friend rushing forward, even before his sword was out. With a crash, he barreled into the three guards, knocking them across the room. Swords came out and soon the first blows of combat began. Remus drew his sword even as Modestus continued to shout.

”Run, you fool! There’ll be more coming. You can’t stay here! Get out of here, Remus!”

His instincts were propelling him into the melee and everything in him raged against the thought of leaving his friend. Yet the shouts echoed in his mind, which added to his inner turmoil. Modestus continued to shout, and between blows, he sent a few glares his way. Footsteps could be heard racing towards them and Remus didn’t know if they were spectators or more guards. He swore and gritted his teeth in frustration.

”Run!”

At last, he found his feet, and he turned to run, even as Modestus knocked a guard down. Sparing his friend a last glance, Remus raced to the doorway, anger and guilt washing over him as he struggled to escape.

Thanks everyone for reading and enjoying this story.

Storey: Thanks, that's an elegant way of putting it. My character concepts are still vague and will probably form as the story progresses.

aussieboy: Thank you!

NickFey: We shall see, naturally. Italia is a land beset by greedy neighbors.

Max A: A restoration of the Republic would be difficult, certainly. By the 5th century, the Roman state was very much autocratic, a far cry from Augustus' far looser definition of absolute rule. For instance, I mention the diadem and sceptre of the emperors. By now, they had been militarized since the 3rd century and orientalized since the 4th.

Sir Humphrey: Welcome aboard, sir. I hope you enjoy it.

CatKnight: Odoacer is looking out for Odoacer, whether an Empire or whatever would advance his aims to rule in Italia, and perhaps elsewhere. Not sure about how far it would run. I would think the standard ending is 1820 - 1000 = 820. So probably a good 350 year run here. Not bad.

yourworstnightm: Ah, then. Much can be done in three centuries.

Draco Rexus: Thanks very much. I wanted to combine the two since I hate to go without either method. The history keeps the story in focus, provides background, and is the key link to the game itself. The novel, is well, my personal indulgence and I'm flattered you're liking it so much.

Avernite: Good question. I used 'Eagles of Avalon' as a title for a short story I wrote before but didn't finish. Obviously, it involves Arthurian knights in combat against Roman legions. Then, as I thought of how this could ever happen, what the armies would look like, the people involved, etc., the backstory I'm now writing, emerged. Hopefully it'll come together nicely when I get to that point.

cthulhu: The possibilities are open, my friend. Romulus is in comfortable exile in Campania. Nepos is plotting in Dalmatia, and Glycerius plots against him in Salona. Odoacer is looking over his shoulder, certainly.

December 476 – April 477

Western Europe was in a state of flux, even outside the troubled Italian peninsula. Rumors flowed into Ravenna of wars in Brittania, as the peoples there fought themselves and fought invaders from the north. King Euric continued to lead the Visigoths in a tough campaign to subdue more of Iberia, moving against the unsettled Hispanians in the southwest. The Alemanni were attempting to push westwards into the region of the Rhine and were meeting resistance from the Franks and their allies. For Italia, however, all eyes were turned to the valley of the Dravus, where the advancing armies of Theodoric Strabo were besieging the settlement at Aguntum, the northeast gateway into the heart of Odoacer’s lands.

Odoacer confidently marched his army into Noricum to oppose Strabo​

The Ostrogothic army was formidable, with a heritage that included the humbling of Rome’s armies at Adrianople a century before. Its army relied heavily on bowmen, with nobles equipped with lavish gold-plated swords. Their weapons, the spear and sword, were derived from the steppe and those of the Sarmatians. Mobile, brave, and well-organized, they were a formidable threat to Odoacer’s Italia as they descended into the hilly lands of Noricum. Strabo was a veteran leader, a lover of the hunt with a taste for war. His invasion of Noricum came at a fortunately quiet time for his tribe, having dealt, for the moment, with incessant threats from his kinsman, also named Theodoric. The war against Odoacer was an ideal pretext to unite the tribe behind him and seek glory on the battlefield.

The Ostrogoths of Theodoric Strabo’s army​

Despite the worsening weather as winter approached, Odoacer confidently marched his army northward along the Via Popillia from Arminium towards the desolate remains of Aquilea, sacked by Attila decades before. Along the way, he rallied the local inhabitants who, finding Odoacer thus far a benign ruler, were far more nervous of the Goths, who had already raised havoc in Italia, sacking Rome itself in 410. Militia contingents eagerly joined the cause and Odoacer impressed into service contingents from local garrisons. By January, with the new year dawning, he had quickly raised an army of equal measure to that of Strabo, and was prepared to dispute possession of Aguntum.

There were factors against him, however. Poor weather, the hasty and disorganized nature of his army, and the increasingly broken terrain he would be marching into as he moved east. Despite having invested the Roman town with a portion of his forces, Strabo was in a good defensive position to counter the Italian army. In spite of his quest for military prestige, he was content to let Odoacer come to him, and fight on his own ground near the town. The result, therefore, was predictable.

Heavy snows slowed his march, and men endured bitter cold and low supplies for months before the two armies met in late March. The Dravus valley effectively hemmed in Odoacer’s ability to maneuver. His core units, including his household cavalry, a mix of Heruli, Scirian, and Roman units, found itself unable to outflank Strabo’s tough line of infantry. Gothic bowmen disrupted the Italian formations and a lack of coordination bungled the attacks as they went in piecemeal. Having held back his nobles, who formed a powerful reserve cavalry, Strabo sent them in as the battle waned, breaking the Italian lines and forcing a retreat. In all, two thousand men were lost from Odoacer’s army, to far less for the Goths. It was by no means a decisive defeat, yet for the moment it guaranteed the eventual fall of Noricum. Worse, rumors of major reinforcements for the Goths were spreading. Odoacer would have to raise an even larger force if he was to keep Italia secure.

The prospect was difficult, however, and Odoacer had to consider measures that perhaps were distasteful to his rule. Into this mix stepped Julius Nepos, the luckless exiled emperor whose Dalmatian lands bordered Noricum. His army, which was comparable in size and quality to Strabo and Odoacer’s forces, was in a position to be decisive for either side. It was with perhaps a sense of chagrin that Odoacer sent out feelers to Nepos to aid them in the defense of the ”empire,”, whose definition differed between the two men. Nepos, however, was not to be fooled.

He wanted de facto rule in addition to Odoacer’s token deference. This the Patrician could not countenance this and the alliance was spurned. For the time being, Italia would have to defend itself.



The mud ran down the bank in streams as the ceaseless torrent of rain overwhelmed the roadway. If it had once been a proud Roman road, it was far less so in these times, and the solid stone construction was slowly giving way to the inroads of weather and decay. If there were any travelers on this once vital artery of trade, if they were foolish or perhaps brave enough to bear the whipping winds and sheets of rain, they could scarcely see the road in front of them, let alone anything further down the banks, where the mud was collecting in pools. Amongst this misery, and thus unseen, lay a huddled man with a ruined old sagum cloak draped over him, little protection against the elements in its condition. He was leaning up against a decrepit old cypress tree, with a pair of bushes on either side of him. The mud was already deepening around him, and he knew he would have to move soon. ”Bitter night,” he mumbled to himself, teeth beginning to chatter. Remus had endured worse nights, he knew, on campaign, yet no cold night spent in the rain was comfortable.

He couldn’t light a fire in the rain and even if he could, it would give away his position. His decision to avoid moving on the roads, borne of long military instinct, had kept him safe from prying patrols yet it inordinately lengthened his journey. What would have normally been a matter of weeks passage into Samnium was now moving into months. Blinding snow and icy conditions only added to this.

The flight from Rome had been a disaster from the start. Despite Modestus’ sacrifice – Remus didn’t know if his friend was dead or not – the garrison had wasted little time before sending mounted patrols after him. Comrades he had once fought alongside in tough wars against the Goths and Alemanni now had orders to kill him on sight. He was labeled a deserter, traitor, and felt in his heart that most of his former soldiers despised him. They would not understand, he could not blame them. To them, he was a deserter, a coward even. What did they know of the virtues of his mind, except the little he might have told them in reminiscences or by his example. Yet he felt unable to bring himself to kill them in turn.

Outside Praeneste, caught unawares by a pair of troopers, Remus was unable to bring himself to land a killing stroke on Gnaeus, once an able subaltern. His forbearance perhaps cost him an unseen escape, yet it satisfied his sense of propiety. Three days later, Gnaeus had caught up with him again, and this time one of his patrol wounded Remus in the side. Though he had managed to limp away, the injury cost him a month’s convalescence in a forgotten cave, high in the foothills of the Apennines.

He was beyond exhaustion now, grimy with immeasurable filth, unrecognizable as the once proud officer, the Decurio of the Comite Vexillum. If the men could see me now, he thought with a harsh laugh. If anyone could see me now. A twig snapped a ways to his left and fatigue or not, his hand snapped to his sword hilt in an instant. If the rest of him was in poor condition, his weapon was not. He spared little in his attentions to his best defense. It was as sharp and clean as the last day he had worn it on parade, in the camp at Arretium. Another patrol? Surely they had passed by the night before and he had evaded them. By his best reckoning, which had included a furtive inspection of the nearest milestone, he was still on an eastern branch off the Via Latina, at least a hundred leagues from Beneventum or Capua. He had to stick to this route if he was to avoid crossing the Apennines, something he loathed to attempt in winter. Yet the patrols were keeping him off the main roads. He thought he was safe where he was, a good place to hide and rest before shifting south, at least without the incessant rain.


Another twig snapped, and Remus thought he heard noises. A voice? Whoever it was, he was doing a poor job of concealing himself. Either a most incompetent soldier or a local? Remus had spared little thought for the local inhabitants. The average farmer would gladly put him up for a night and give him a good meal, before scurrying off to the local magistrate the next morning. He had avoided contact with any citizen unless dire necessity – or hunger – made this necessary. Of all the nights he could stumble into someone. Deciding that stealth was no longer prudent, he shifted his weight out of the mud, which threatened to pull him back into the muck. Freeing himself with syrupy difficulty, Remus got to his feet, at last finding something good about the rain as it masked the noise. If this fool wasn’t so accursedly loud, Remus thought, the sounds of water hitting the ground would surely mask his approach.

There! A shadow? Was that…? He looked lanky, whoever, it was. Features came into view as the body shifted this way or that, the man ambling towards Remus with what appeared to be no purpose at all. Except…he heard a voice this time for sure. It was a shout coming from the man. ”Peperna! Peperna! Where…?” He broke off, and it appeared that he kicked the mud, some of which splashed close to Remus. It looked as if the man had at last noticed his neighbor, for Remus sprang out of hiding and ran at him with a glare. Before the man could flee or fight, Remus had grasped his neck and the blade was to the skin.

The man, who now looked extremely young close-up, grimaced in pain and whimpered. After a few moments of looking into his eyes, Remus scoffed and pushed him away though still brandishing his weapon. ”Who in Hades are you?!? And who or what is Peperna?!?”

Now the young man looked embarrassed. ”My…my cow. Oh, father’s going to be so angry. This is the third time this week. I have to find her or I’m done for.” He looked around anxiously, scarcely noticing Remus’ stunned expression.

”A cow?” All his ideas had been dead wrong and for the first time that night, he felt himself smile at the absurdity of it. This young timid fellow had accomplished what a hundred of Rome’s best troopers could not, and this in the middle of a raging storm in muddy woods. He had found Remus, Remus the outlaw, Remus the deserter. All on account of a cow named Peperna.

Seeing his smile and hint of laughter, the young man – a lad, really – narrowed his eyes. ”I really need to find her. She’s probably lost and confused in all this rain. Can you help me?” He paused. And then his eyes widened. Before he could say anything, Remus’ hand was on his face and the blade was back.

”Yes, I am him. And if I was as bad as they say I am, you would no longer be alive. Now keep your tongue and be still.” He waited a few seconds and released the hand. When he saw the lad was not going to scream, probably paralyzed with fright, he grunted in satisfaction. ”Now then, what shall I call you?”


It took a few moments to prod him into a response. ”S…S-Selenus.” His eyes widened again, this time in flagrant interest. ”You’re the Decurio! On the run!” The next few moments were a babble of gasps and excited mentions of the people he wanted to tell of this moment, of his diligent attention to the news and comings from the great city. It all made Remus want to knock him out with one quick blow from the hilt, but he endured it, if only for the use he could get out of the lad.

”All well and good, but listen! Forget the stupid cow. First, we need to get out of this rain. Then, I need food. Please,” he grunted, not liking the idea of putting himself in this Selenus’ hands. ”Third, if you know these roads, then I need your mind. I need to think of a way---“

”Vesuvius!” Selenus suddenly blurted out, which confused Remus even more. ”You’re going to Vesuvius! Just like Spartacus of old?” Which is the first inkling Remus received of this lad’s scholarly bent. A farmer and a scholar? How...Roman, he thought with an inner smile. Vesuvius, however, had not been his plan. Yet…