It was an age old ritual for any soldier marching into an occupied camp. The veterans would turn out on both sides of the
Via Principalis to stare grimly at the newcomers, measuring them and seeing if they rated the derision typical of raw soldiers who hadn’t yet seen battle. There had been many such columns lately until over half of the camp boasted the untested and green. It was one of the few disruptions to the long monotony. When the latest band of soldiers approached, the veterans didn’t immediately break into their taunting shouts, encouraging their new comrades to return to their mothers or giving them lurid details of what to expect in the next fight. Some of the wounded would show their wounds with mean grins, inviting the young recruits to see into their future. But not these…
The vacant eyes told the story, and no one could deny these had seen plenty of fighting. Their armor was mixed and tattered unlike the remainder of the Roman army. Against the bronze and scarlet accoutrements of the Roman contingent, these were decked out in faint hints of what might have been blue and gray, if the equipment hadn’t been so disheveled. Older veterans could still remember those uniforms during the bitter battles against Donatus and Odoacer’s armies. These men wore Italian armor, which told everyone who they were. General Selenus had arrived at last with his own veteran army. Merely three thousand, all told, yet they had almost single-handedly liberated Sicily from the Vandal foe. Indeed, the Italians were measuring them in turn and the Romans found themselves stared down just as hard.
Just inside the western palisade, the two generals stood side by side, watching the arrival in wary silence. Practicality alone made them stand there with a semblance of cooperation. Each would have enjoyed nothing better than to kill the other. Selenus felt himself carried along by events, wondering what he was doing here and why he had brought himself and his men to this point. He had grown used to a resigned obedience to Rome over the years and had known little else. His tired loyalty to Barbaria’s faction had thrust him into political places he no longer wished to be but he could not stir himself to any other course. His arrival in Rome had certainly been disillusioning. The imperial government was confident, Romulus even more so, yet it was high-pitched, hyper. Too many parties, too little preparation. They feared Remus more than they could say out loud, it was apparent. They had never gotten over the debt the Imperator owed to the general even as he had punished him with exile. And now they were reaping their reward. Selenus had felt a grim satisfaction at that. So why then, was he ranging himself on the other side of the field? Part of him felt resigned to the struggle. Was it a failure of will? No, there was something else. He knew a part of him felt the guilt for his own complacency. He had not said a word when Remus was exiled. He had let Romulus and his mother lead him by the nose to do their bidding, off to Sicily and victory for a Rome without Remus. This coming battle had as much to do with his faults as any other. Was fighting alongside Suomar Verus a form of self-punishment? What if they won? What if his own troops tipped the scales? He would loathe himself even more, he knew. Yet here he stood.
”So, Praetor Selenus arrives at last,” Suomar said, testing.
”I was beginning to wonder if your men would ever make it. Many wondered where you would end up,” he said with a shrewd look.
”Where shall my men camp?” Selenus replied, trying to ignore the veiled suspicion. Many in Rome had acted the same way. Romulus had promised much during his audience, desperately offering much in wealth, land, and even an imperial wife, in return for Selenus’ loyalty to him. Perhaps hew saw Selenus as a key to victory, feeling that if he could buy him and keep him on a loyal path, a triumph was assured. Selenus was noncommittal, feigning exhaustion to avoid an answer. The Lady Barbaria’s promises had been of a different sort, and indeed when she had attempted to demonstrate, he had spurned her…to his own surprise. Perhaps the time apart had withered the youth in him. Or perhaps she had aged beyond such easy manipulations. He would pay for his indiscretion, he knew, but for the moment, he had managed to escape Rome and was free of her and her son.
Suomar smiled with a nasty foreboding.
”Certainly not in the camp? Did you have the impression that your men would remain here? Nonsense. An army from Dalmatia approaches from the east. Not Viator himself yet enough to threaten my rear. Your…Italians…are perfect for guarding my flank as I turn against Macrinus. I certainly can’t trust them in the main battle, can I?”
The insult burned on Selenus’ cheek, and he felt himself flush. Half-turning to go, he cocked a glance at Suomar, again wondering why he was here, serving the man.
”I’ll tend to my men for tomorrow’s march then.”
”Oh no,” Suomar responded with sly pleasure.
”I need you close when the time comes, Praetor. No, your Italians will have to get along with a different commander. I’ll see to it. No, General Selenus, I am placing you on the left. Macrinus is afraid to leave the safety of Mediolanum. It binds him like a chain to a post. I’ll use that against him and end it in one blow. You’ll come in very handy when we move against him.”
Selenus understood the deployment at once, even if he would have advised Suomar against such overconfidence. The left faced the enemy’s right. Many armies had a habit of placing their best troops on their right. Either Selenus was being lumped with the worst of Suomar’s army or he wished Selenus to face the hardest fighting. The general wished his death then. Would Remus command his right wing personally? Was that the objective? Or perhaps, he decided, it was enough to separate him from his own troops, to ensure that he could not move against Suomar in force.
He stood stonily as he watched his army march through the camp, to set up beyond the eastern gate, isolated from the mainy. So his men, heroes of Sicily, weren’t judged worthy enough for the coming fight? Suomar was right, of course. Someone needed to keep the Dalmatians off guard. And if Suomar questioned Selenus’ loyalty, his “Italians” were just as suspect. Madness. How could any army prevail on such suspicions? And what was he doing here? To whom was he loyal? Would he truly do penance for his mistakes by dying under Remus’ sword? He flashed back to that first meeting in Campania, years before, the farm boy and the cavalry officer on the run. Could they have possibly known then that they would face each other on a field years later, both imperial generals. Madness. Could he bring himself to kill Remus? Would he allow himself to be killed, to assuage his guilt? When the army left the camp at Brixia, perhaps in the next few days, he would discover for himself .
