Word of his return had spread faster than his horse could gallop. Sentries, glimpsing his dust cloud from afar, had passed the news down to the army camps outside the walls of Mediolanum. By the time he had crested the last rise, his army was drawn up on three sides of a square, awaiting his approach in perfect parade-ground formation. They stood quietly in their ranks. Each man, from the officers to the lowliest rankers, wondered what Remus’ return meant. That he had survived cheered them, since his sudden departure had surprised all and had given rise to worried mutterings. Yet each knew that he brought momentous fortune with him, and all stood ready to follow wherever it took them, be it as rebel, liberator, or otherwise. He had brought them discipline, self-respect, and glory in the field.
The officers stood in the center of the square, the senior commanders in the
Aquila assembled near a small garrison contingent. In front of this stood three men:
Classicus, the legion’s
Exarchus and Remus’ second-in-command, Claudius, commander of the Mediolanum garrison, and Maximinus, officer and representative from
Comes Viator in Dalmatia. Each stood grimly as they watched Remus’ horse slow to a trot, then a canter, and finally to halt in front of them, in front of the entire army. His bloody face spoke volumes, and soon no one believed he had been greeted as a liberator.
He slowly eased himself off of his horse, his aching wounds catching up with him at last. With a determined grunt, he straightened and approached with as much dignity as he could muster, glaring down the
beneficiarii who attempted to aid him. His troubled walk was not the admission of weakness he feared, yet it caused a slow boil to spread through the army. There was a slow stirring in the ranks as discipline fought with the soldier’s desire to yell, to shout for news. Remus’ eyes, however, were for Claudius and Maximinus, who watched him silently with shrewd calculating looks.
Finally, after a protracted moment, Remus felt some of his composure slip and with a slow shake of his head, he look downward for a brief time.
”The Empire is dead, Claudius.”
In spite of the vast assemblage, the echo carried far enough to slip through the ranks. Now the muttering broke out in earnest, until at last each
primicerium was able to silence their men. There was an edge in the air, however.
Claudius smiled slowly, and shook his head in return.
”You are the Empire, general. You always were, from the moment you took command.”
Remus felt some of the old caution return, and had an instinct to argue the point, but his soldiers settled it for him. Like a trumpet piercing the silence, the cry went up, at first from a single trooper.
”Aquilinus!”
The wave broke at last, all the tension released in an instant, there being no chance for the officers to stem the tide.
”Aquilinus! Remus Aquilinus!” The shouts spread quickly through the ranks and soon the entire army was shouting as one. Echoes from the distance showed that the city garrison had caught on. Even the officers were joining in, Classicus with them, only Claudius and Aurelinus looking on in bemused acceptance. Remus was fortunate that the caked blood hid his flush, and he could feel the effect of his soldiers’ devotion race through him, giving sanction to all that he now contemplated.
But he would never have the chance to reveal his plans. There was no need. First a knot of legionaries took up a new cry, which contended with and then joined and supplanted the cheers. It was an echo from a distant heart of Italia, as if the bones of old stirred with its sound.
”Aquilinus Imperator! Imperator! Imperator!” The ranks broke, the men racing forward to surround their general in a vast circle, screaming their defiance and loyalty.
”Imperator!” The cries transformed the army’s gladness for their commander’s return to something far greater. Like the legions of old, they acclaimed their leader, not for a battlefield triumph, rather for something far bolder.
Several Germans broke away from the main body to raucous cheers, some of the Alemanni who had served with great effect in the last campaign against the Franks. They brandished one of their great shields and without a word, set it low to the ground in front of Remus. Some recognized the tradition, and even those who did not, they understood in moments. His hesitation had perished with Varic’s thrust.
Remus stepped on to the shield, using his remaining strength to balance himself as they slowly raised him upward. The circle dissolved as the army mobbed their general, their leader, their declared emperor.
”Imperator! Imperator! Aquilinus Imperator!”
A cry carried on the wind, and Selenus glanced behind him. A bird? The coastal winds carried much with their echoes, and Sicily was lately home to many cries.
He had come up to the top of the hill, ostensibly to watch the Vandal ships depart. In reality, he simply preferred the solitude, taking only a single guard with him. The bitter headwinds off Lilybaeum were a balm for his inner turmoil. His officers celebrated their bloodless triumph, the unexpected surrender, the capture of the last port in Sicily. In exchange, Selenus gave leave for the garrison to return to Africa. Though no treaty was signed, the present Vandal war was all but over.
Selenus knew his small army had had little to do with the triumph, though he had no wish to dampen his men’s spirits. The Vandal garrison still outnumbered his own besieging force and it was a siege in name only. There were no engines to speak of and they had a tenuous supply line at best. It was the steadily growing fleet, with its
liburna latina, or
triacontor, which had won a signal victory off Gela and was soon contesting the waters off Lilybaeum. More important were the rumors drifting across the waters from Africa, where the Berbers had apparently ambushed a portion of the Vandal army and now threatened Leptis Magna. King Gunthamund was nervous enough to surrender Sicily for the time being in order to protect the heart of his kingdom.
He knew the effects of his victory, and he listened to the officers and magnates’ glowing accounts with furtive interest. Yes, Sicily would once again become a Roman granary. Yes, the Imperial Navy had recovered from the brink of irrelevance. And yes, Sicily’s capture meant that Sardinia and Corsica would soon wither on the barbarian vine. Yes, Selenus would be a rich nobleman. None of this, however, comforted him. Which is why he had come to this desolate point, to clear his head, to think of what he must do.
The letter still lay crumpled in his right hand. No other person had seen it, and only a few even knew a courier had arrived. In time, they would. Perhaps tomorrow, he thought. Give the men a night of feasting and fraternizing with the local population. Then he would divulge what Romulus had written.
He gazed absently at the cloudless sky. Remus had lifted him from insignificance. He had instilled in Selenus a reverence for the Empire, a deep loyalty. It was Romulus and the Empire he now served, was it not? Was it not the Empire for which he had recovered Sicily? Then what did that make Remus? What would that make Selenus? In frustration, he kicked at the rocks, sending a few small ones crackling over the edge, into the waters below.
He glanced at the nervous guard, and smiled weakly. Just as quickly he turned somber, not sure if he wanted the man to answer.
”How do you fight a father?”
