Knights of the Western Empire
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North of Rome, Italia
Western Roman Empire
Anno Domini 462
"In the spring of 462 AD, Ricimer assembled a great host, resorting once more to the deplorable custom of hiring
mercenaries, and marched on Rome to challenge Majorian in his temporary capital. This campaign culminated in the 2nd
battle of the Milvian Bridge…” "
-Gibbon, Decline of the Roman Empire
News of war flew across Italia, scattering groups of merchants and travellers to carry it further away from Ravenna. It made villagers gather their herds, close their doors and citizens man their walls. It caused quite a lot of prayer in the suddenly crowded churches, were frightened Romans gathered in every minor village or great city. A fearful hush fell over the countryside of Etruria and Picenum, the no-mans land between Ravenna and Rome. Would the Emperor move north, to reclaim his capital at Ravenna? Or would the Patrician march south to re-establish his dominion over the state?
He would. When winter gave place to spring, a vast host of Herulian mercenaries with the Comitatian Legions of Italy and Gaul as backbone, all in all some 60.000 infantry and 10.000 cavalry, marched down Via Flamina making the Augustus’s advanced scouts bolt like startled quails, rushing to their master’s side with the news. Within days of Ricimer lifting camp, Majorianus knew he was coming and began to implement his war plan.
The balance of forces, was highly adverse to Majorianus. The Army Praesental, the Emperor’s own field army, was a shadow of its former self – where half a century ago it had counted fifty-two Legions and sixty-five Auxilias of infantry and forty-one Vexilias of cavalry (some 85.000 infantry and 16.000 cavalry), it now numbered less than 17.000 all in all.
Before embarking for Africa, Majorianus had chosen to consolidate the remains of the myriads of small infantry units, of which many had been reduced to just a few dozen men, into the twelve Palatine Legions, in order to keep them at least at near enough full strength of 1.200 each. Since these units were the most prestigious (and best paid) ones in the army, the transferred soldiers, some of which were originally serving in lowly pseudo-comitatian Legions, had regarded the amalgamation as a kind of promotion.
As for the cavalry, the forces commanded by the newly appointed Magister Equitium Praesentalis (the Commander of Cavalry in the Emperor’s presence) were all heavy Clibanarii or Cataphract and numbering some 2.400 (half of which were in the newly formed unit of Roman noble youth and greener than asparagus sprigs). This was because after the victories over the Burgundians and the Visigoths, Ricimer had seen fit to appropriate all the cavalry of the Army Praesental to the Comitatian Armies of Gaul and Italy, claiming that they were needed for the defence against barbarian raids. While unassailably true, this had the ring of an excuse to Majorianus, who suspected the Patrician wanted to rein in his puppet Augustus.
Be that as it may, Majorianus had been forced to rely on his Visigothic Foederates to provide all light and medium cavalry for his campaigns in Hispania and Africa. Ricimer had only allowed Majorianus to keep the heavy cavalry, three vexilias of four hundred each. These unsurpassed shock troops were not well suited against fleet-footed raiders, which was presumably why Ricimer had agreed to part with them. But now, with the Visigoths back in their Kingdom of Tolosa and the Vandals almost entirely lacking in cavalry, it left the Army Praesental entirely bereft of light horse.
This meant that advancing to meet Ricmer in open terrain would be folly since the Army Praesental could not prevent being outflanked by enemy light cavalry. Majorian needed a place where Ricimer’s advantage in cavalry could be nullified and he knew exactly where that could be achieved. It would be on an old battlefield, a few miles north of Rome at Pons Mulvius, the Milvian Bridge, where Via Flamina bridged the Tiber. If Ricimer wanted to reach Rome, here was were he’d have to cross. For the same reason, this was where the Augustus Maxentius had tried (and failed) to stop his rival, the Caesar Constantinus, later known as Constantinus the Great. And it was also here, on this field or close to it where Constantinus had first seen in the sky the sign of the Labarum, the intertwined Greek letters Chi-Rho, the anagram of Christ, and heard a heavenly voice promise him victory under this standard. Having ordered the Labarum painted on the shields of his soldiers, Constantinus had gone ahead and defeated the vastly superior forces of Maxentius. Given that he was badly outnumbered, just as Constantinus had been, the Emperor decided that this was an auspicious place to fight on and never mind that he’d be defending the bridge, rather than attacking it like Constantinus had!
Legio Palatina Equites Maiorianii Romanenses Iuniores were camped in a shallow depression a few miles from the battlefield-to-be together with the remaining meagre cavalry element of the Army Praesental; the ex-patriate Syrians and Persians of the Equites Clibanarii and the Equites Clibanarii Sagitarii and the Sarmatians of the Equites Cataphractes Iunores. And then there were the other late addition to the Praesental Cavalry – the Bucelarii. The soldiers had made make-shift sun shelters from their cloaks and most were sitting silently (silence had been ordered in order not to give away their position) and closely packed in their shadow. The Cataphractes and Clibanarii had cloaks in traditional cavalry white, while the newly recruited Romans had infantry red. To God on High, the depression must have looked like a gigantic pool full of snow and blood, Titus Aetrius thought. Ah, to have some snow now, to cool off with!
The scorching sun had dried all the grass in the depression stiff and yellow. Crickets were chirping furiously, as if confirming with their insistent song that “yep, its hotter than Hell today!”. The ground was dry as parchment and fine dust formed little clouds with every step. Looking above the rim of the depression, Titus could see great white plumes off it in the distance, where the Patrician's army manoeuvred itself into position to attack the Army Praesental. It would not be long now before they would go into action; and thank the Crucified God for that!
The young Tribune of the Equites Romanenses Iuniores was positively cooking in his gleaming scale armour, which was almost too hot to touch with a bare hand by now. Indeed, even the red-crested helmet (another affectation from the infantry uniform, other cavalry units wore yellow helmet crests) felt like a cooking pot taken straight from the fire. Truly, he knew now why the Roman soldiers of old had jokingly referred to the Persian and Palmyrene heavy cavalry as Clibanarii, “those in the oven”. Fortunately, he had remembered to order each of his men to bring a large skin of water with the horse. Being able to drink during the long hours of waiting would be critical if they were to be effective once they joined the battle. He had not failed in his responsibilities yet, and that was more than he had ever expected when he had sputtered out his thanks to the Augustus for giving him the single most powerful unit in the Army Praesental. Command of the “Young Romans”, as the Legion was colloquially known, was more or less the last thing Titus had expected. He didn’t feel like a commander of a cavalry legion, Hell, he didn’t even feel much like a proper soldier. A half-grown boy dressed up in borrowed arms and armour for playing soldiers, now, that was more in line with how he still viewed himself. But a Tribune? Preposterous!
Chlorus, an old veteran who now served Titus’s father as Bucelarus seemed to think it preposterous too. He was sitting next to Titus, in the shadow of his cloak. Their horses where tied together next to them. The wrinkled and grizzled warrior, along with two of his men had been sent along by Lucius Aetrius to “look out for the boy” in the heat of battle. All the other senators had done the same, sending at least one Bucelarus along as bodyguards for their sons. Majorianus had had a sinking feeling about that, but could only put forward the condition that these men must follow orders from appointed officers like everyone else. How could he refuse new troops, freely given and cavalry at that, when he was so desperately outnumbered?
The Magister Equitium Praesentalis came walking through the chaotic-looking camp, dodging outspread cloaks and sprawling soldiers, heading straight for the standard of the Legion. Titus hurriedly got to his feet and saluted with his fist over his chest in Legionary fashion.
‘Sir!’
‘Tribune Titus! Make your men ready to saddle up and move out forthwith!’ Arshad the Persian whispered, although it was a whisper more sounding like a shout than Titus had ever heard, no, in fact, somehow, it WAS a shout. Someday he would have to ask his former tutor how he could manage a shout without even raising his voice. Maybe it was just a natural talent of the man Titus had always taken for a lowly mercenary.
‘Sir, as you command!’ Titus answered, banging his armoured chest with a fist.
Arshad saluted back, snorted and moved on. Chlorus snorted too, clearly not impressed with his charge.
‘Tribune Titus… ha! I’ll have you know that I remember when you were still running around in a loincloth, and mostly a soiled one at that. All right, this nonsense has been going on long enough!’
‘What do you mean?’
Taking his time, Chlorus got on his feet and whistled with two fingers in his mouth, a shrill deafening sound. All around the camp, Bucelarii began to climb to their feet.
‘Are you mad? Silence has been ordered and that could have woken up a corpse!! What was that all about?!’ Titus raged.
Without a word, Chlorus drew his sword and his two henchmen did the same. The son of Senator Aetrius’s eyes opened very widely.
‘Did you honestly think that your father would let you risk your life in this foolish little war, boy? This little playing soldiers game is over with; you and your friends will stay put until the battle is over.’
‘Is that so?’ Titus answered between clenched teeth. He couldn’t remember being so angry in his life. ‘And what about Arshad and his men? Don’t you think they will try to stop you?’
‘I’m sure they will consider it. But we only have orders to stop you kids, the real soldiers can ride to war to their hearts content as far as we’re concerned. Maybe they’ll decide that it’s better to actually show up with half the force than to risk all of it and botch up their timing to boot by fighting us. Besides, there’s more of us than of them!’ the old soldier said, grinning confidently.
‘Oh, how do you figure?’ Titus said, drawing his Spatha and dagger with a swift motion. ‘I count as many soldiers as Bucelarii in this god-forsaken pit!’
Chlorus vinced. ‘Aww, boy don’t be a fool…’
Raising his sword over his head, Titus shouted at the top of his lungs: ‘Young Romans! To arms, to arms! Traitors in our midst!’
All across the depression, Spathas flashed out of their scabbards as furious young nobles drew their weapons to the amazement of their loyal family retainers.
‘Titus, are you mad?’ Chlorus pleaded. ‘It’s me! You used to sit in my lap and make me tell you war stories when you were little boy, don’t you remember? And now you threaten me with a sword? I’m only doing as your father ordered, as should you!’
‘My father is a traitor!’ Titus hissed. ‘And if you follow his orders, so are you!’
The old Bucelarus looked stricken. ‘Titus…. please! Put down the sword now!’
Titus inhaled and looked around. The impasse was repeated thousandfold across the camp. The Persian and Sarmatians had their swords out too, looking confused and not certain about what to do. The whole scene was frozen on the threshold of unrestrained slaughter. Something would have to give, very soon…
‘Chlorus, it’s as simple as this – if you try to stop me, I’ll do my best to kill you. I’m sure you’re good enough with your sword to stop me from doing that, but I’m not certain you can do it without killing or maiming me, and my father won’t like that, not one bit.’
‘Neither would you, whelp!’ Chlorus spat.
Titus swallowed. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t. Do as you like – fight me, let me go and stay here, or come with me and watch my back in the battle. Your call.’
Without taking his eyes from the grizzled family retainer, the young Tribune raised his voice. ‘Young Romans! The Emperor needs us! We’re going to ride into battle now, and anyone who tries to stop us is a traitor to Rome, to be fought to the death! Now… saddle up!’
Western Roman Empire
Anno Domini 462
"In the spring of 462 AD, Ricimer assembled a great host, resorting once more to the deplorable custom of hiring
mercenaries, and marched on Rome to challenge Majorian in his temporary capital. This campaign culminated in the 2nd
battle of the Milvian Bridge…” "
-Gibbon, Decline of the Roman Empire
News of war flew across Italia, scattering groups of merchants and travellers to carry it further away from Ravenna. It made villagers gather their herds, close their doors and citizens man their walls. It caused quite a lot of prayer in the suddenly crowded churches, were frightened Romans gathered in every minor village or great city. A fearful hush fell over the countryside of Etruria and Picenum, the no-mans land between Ravenna and Rome. Would the Emperor move north, to reclaim his capital at Ravenna? Or would the Patrician march south to re-establish his dominion over the state?
He would. When winter gave place to spring, a vast host of Herulian mercenaries with the Comitatian Legions of Italy and Gaul as backbone, all in all some 60.000 infantry and 10.000 cavalry, marched down Via Flamina making the Augustus’s advanced scouts bolt like startled quails, rushing to their master’s side with the news. Within days of Ricimer lifting camp, Majorianus knew he was coming and began to implement his war plan.
The balance of forces, was highly adverse to Majorianus. The Army Praesental, the Emperor’s own field army, was a shadow of its former self – where half a century ago it had counted fifty-two Legions and sixty-five Auxilias of infantry and forty-one Vexilias of cavalry (some 85.000 infantry and 16.000 cavalry), it now numbered less than 17.000 all in all.
Before embarking for Africa, Majorianus had chosen to consolidate the remains of the myriads of small infantry units, of which many had been reduced to just a few dozen men, into the twelve Palatine Legions, in order to keep them at least at near enough full strength of 1.200 each. Since these units were the most prestigious (and best paid) ones in the army, the transferred soldiers, some of which were originally serving in lowly pseudo-comitatian Legions, had regarded the amalgamation as a kind of promotion.
As for the cavalry, the forces commanded by the newly appointed Magister Equitium Praesentalis (the Commander of Cavalry in the Emperor’s presence) were all heavy Clibanarii or Cataphract and numbering some 2.400 (half of which were in the newly formed unit of Roman noble youth and greener than asparagus sprigs). This was because after the victories over the Burgundians and the Visigoths, Ricimer had seen fit to appropriate all the cavalry of the Army Praesental to the Comitatian Armies of Gaul and Italy, claiming that they were needed for the defence against barbarian raids. While unassailably true, this had the ring of an excuse to Majorianus, who suspected the Patrician wanted to rein in his puppet Augustus.
Be that as it may, Majorianus had been forced to rely on his Visigothic Foederates to provide all light and medium cavalry for his campaigns in Hispania and Africa. Ricimer had only allowed Majorianus to keep the heavy cavalry, three vexilias of four hundred each. These unsurpassed shock troops were not well suited against fleet-footed raiders, which was presumably why Ricimer had agreed to part with them. But now, with the Visigoths back in their Kingdom of Tolosa and the Vandals almost entirely lacking in cavalry, it left the Army Praesental entirely bereft of light horse.
This meant that advancing to meet Ricmer in open terrain would be folly since the Army Praesental could not prevent being outflanked by enemy light cavalry. Majorian needed a place where Ricimer’s advantage in cavalry could be nullified and he knew exactly where that could be achieved. It would be on an old battlefield, a few miles north of Rome at Pons Mulvius, the Milvian Bridge, where Via Flamina bridged the Tiber. If Ricimer wanted to reach Rome, here was were he’d have to cross. For the same reason, this was where the Augustus Maxentius had tried (and failed) to stop his rival, the Caesar Constantinus, later known as Constantinus the Great. And it was also here, on this field or close to it where Constantinus had first seen in the sky the sign of the Labarum, the intertwined Greek letters Chi-Rho, the anagram of Christ, and heard a heavenly voice promise him victory under this standard. Having ordered the Labarum painted on the shields of his soldiers, Constantinus had gone ahead and defeated the vastly superior forces of Maxentius. Given that he was badly outnumbered, just as Constantinus had been, the Emperor decided that this was an auspicious place to fight on and never mind that he’d be defending the bridge, rather than attacking it like Constantinus had!
***
Legio Palatina Equites Maiorianii Romanenses Iuniores were camped in a shallow depression a few miles from the battlefield-to-be together with the remaining meagre cavalry element of the Army Praesental; the ex-patriate Syrians and Persians of the Equites Clibanarii and the Equites Clibanarii Sagitarii and the Sarmatians of the Equites Cataphractes Iunores. And then there were the other late addition to the Praesental Cavalry – the Bucelarii. The soldiers had made make-shift sun shelters from their cloaks and most were sitting silently (silence had been ordered in order not to give away their position) and closely packed in their shadow. The Cataphractes and Clibanarii had cloaks in traditional cavalry white, while the newly recruited Romans had infantry red. To God on High, the depression must have looked like a gigantic pool full of snow and blood, Titus Aetrius thought. Ah, to have some snow now, to cool off with!
The scorching sun had dried all the grass in the depression stiff and yellow. Crickets were chirping furiously, as if confirming with their insistent song that “yep, its hotter than Hell today!”. The ground was dry as parchment and fine dust formed little clouds with every step. Looking above the rim of the depression, Titus could see great white plumes off it in the distance, where the Patrician's army manoeuvred itself into position to attack the Army Praesental. It would not be long now before they would go into action; and thank the Crucified God for that!
The young Tribune of the Equites Romanenses Iuniores was positively cooking in his gleaming scale armour, which was almost too hot to touch with a bare hand by now. Indeed, even the red-crested helmet (another affectation from the infantry uniform, other cavalry units wore yellow helmet crests) felt like a cooking pot taken straight from the fire. Truly, he knew now why the Roman soldiers of old had jokingly referred to the Persian and Palmyrene heavy cavalry as Clibanarii, “those in the oven”. Fortunately, he had remembered to order each of his men to bring a large skin of water with the horse. Being able to drink during the long hours of waiting would be critical if they were to be effective once they joined the battle. He had not failed in his responsibilities yet, and that was more than he had ever expected when he had sputtered out his thanks to the Augustus for giving him the single most powerful unit in the Army Praesental. Command of the “Young Romans”, as the Legion was colloquially known, was more or less the last thing Titus had expected. He didn’t feel like a commander of a cavalry legion, Hell, he didn’t even feel much like a proper soldier. A half-grown boy dressed up in borrowed arms and armour for playing soldiers, now, that was more in line with how he still viewed himself. But a Tribune? Preposterous!
Chlorus, an old veteran who now served Titus’s father as Bucelarus seemed to think it preposterous too. He was sitting next to Titus, in the shadow of his cloak. Their horses where tied together next to them. The wrinkled and grizzled warrior, along with two of his men had been sent along by Lucius Aetrius to “look out for the boy” in the heat of battle. All the other senators had done the same, sending at least one Bucelarus along as bodyguards for their sons. Majorianus had had a sinking feeling about that, but could only put forward the condition that these men must follow orders from appointed officers like everyone else. How could he refuse new troops, freely given and cavalry at that, when he was so desperately outnumbered?
The Magister Equitium Praesentalis came walking through the chaotic-looking camp, dodging outspread cloaks and sprawling soldiers, heading straight for the standard of the Legion. Titus hurriedly got to his feet and saluted with his fist over his chest in Legionary fashion.
‘Sir!’
‘Tribune Titus! Make your men ready to saddle up and move out forthwith!’ Arshad the Persian whispered, although it was a whisper more sounding like a shout than Titus had ever heard, no, in fact, somehow, it WAS a shout. Someday he would have to ask his former tutor how he could manage a shout without even raising his voice. Maybe it was just a natural talent of the man Titus had always taken for a lowly mercenary.
‘Sir, as you command!’ Titus answered, banging his armoured chest with a fist.
Arshad saluted back, snorted and moved on. Chlorus snorted too, clearly not impressed with his charge.
‘Tribune Titus… ha! I’ll have you know that I remember when you were still running around in a loincloth, and mostly a soiled one at that. All right, this nonsense has been going on long enough!’
‘What do you mean?’
Taking his time, Chlorus got on his feet and whistled with two fingers in his mouth, a shrill deafening sound. All around the camp, Bucelarii began to climb to their feet.
‘Are you mad? Silence has been ordered and that could have woken up a corpse!! What was that all about?!’ Titus raged.
Without a word, Chlorus drew his sword and his two henchmen did the same. The son of Senator Aetrius’s eyes opened very widely.
‘Did you honestly think that your father would let you risk your life in this foolish little war, boy? This little playing soldiers game is over with; you and your friends will stay put until the battle is over.’
‘Is that so?’ Titus answered between clenched teeth. He couldn’t remember being so angry in his life. ‘And what about Arshad and his men? Don’t you think they will try to stop you?’
‘I’m sure they will consider it. But we only have orders to stop you kids, the real soldiers can ride to war to their hearts content as far as we’re concerned. Maybe they’ll decide that it’s better to actually show up with half the force than to risk all of it and botch up their timing to boot by fighting us. Besides, there’s more of us than of them!’ the old soldier said, grinning confidently.
‘Oh, how do you figure?’ Titus said, drawing his Spatha and dagger with a swift motion. ‘I count as many soldiers as Bucelarii in this god-forsaken pit!’
Chlorus vinced. ‘Aww, boy don’t be a fool…’
Raising his sword over his head, Titus shouted at the top of his lungs: ‘Young Romans! To arms, to arms! Traitors in our midst!’
All across the depression, Spathas flashed out of their scabbards as furious young nobles drew their weapons to the amazement of their loyal family retainers.
‘Titus, are you mad?’ Chlorus pleaded. ‘It’s me! You used to sit in my lap and make me tell you war stories when you were little boy, don’t you remember? And now you threaten me with a sword? I’m only doing as your father ordered, as should you!’
‘My father is a traitor!’ Titus hissed. ‘And if you follow his orders, so are you!’
The old Bucelarus looked stricken. ‘Titus…. please! Put down the sword now!’
Titus inhaled and looked around. The impasse was repeated thousandfold across the camp. The Persian and Sarmatians had their swords out too, looking confused and not certain about what to do. The whole scene was frozen on the threshold of unrestrained slaughter. Something would have to give, very soon…
‘Chlorus, it’s as simple as this – if you try to stop me, I’ll do my best to kill you. I’m sure you’re good enough with your sword to stop me from doing that, but I’m not certain you can do it without killing or maiming me, and my father won’t like that, not one bit.’
‘Neither would you, whelp!’ Chlorus spat.
Titus swallowed. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t. Do as you like – fight me, let me go and stay here, or come with me and watch my back in the battle. Your call.’
Without taking his eyes from the grizzled family retainer, the young Tribune raised his voice. ‘Young Romans! The Emperor needs us! We’re going to ride into battle now, and anyone who tries to stop us is a traitor to Rome, to be fought to the death! Now… saddle up!’
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Having to fight one battle before he fights another is not helping Majorianus at all. But at least Titus is consistent in his beliefs. That, at least, does do Majorianus some favor.
And so Lucius Aetrius makes a fateful (and possibly fatal?) calculation, and it turns out that he does not know his own son. Well, he would be far from the first father for whom that is true. A rite of passage for Titus though, as he makes a clear break from his father. Until now there has been a lot of jockeying for position, within families as well as within the Empire. The only question is will Milvian II be decisive like its predecessor, or will it be like so many others (the one I am thinking of is Second Mantinea) that resolves nothing?
That.... that was simply awesome interplay and a sweet cliff-hanger. Yogi, the day I am able to match your skill, is the day I find myself somewhat happy with my own writing. Thanks for raising the benchmark yet again! 
Sooo... it's 70,000 vs. 20,000? Roughly? Majorianus needs an awful lot of luck to come out on top in that fight. Even if the Young Romans manage to win their scuffle and not have half of their numbers cut down by the Bucelarii. Heck, even if all the Bucelarii change sides, that still leaves an army of 70,000 facing an army of maybe 25,000.
I am confident that Majorianus will win, or at least won't lose (it wouldn't be much of a story if in two updates Majorianus' head is paraded around Ravenna on a pike), and I am just as curious to see how you will bring this about without straining believability too much.
Let's see what will happen. And then let's see what else Majorianus might be capable of. There's a whole lot of Empire that needs restoring...
I am confident that Majorianus will win, or at least won't lose (it wouldn't be much of a story if in two updates Majorianus' head is paraded around Ravenna on a pike), and I am just as curious to see how you will bring this about without straining believability too much.
Let's see what will happen. And then let's see what else Majorianus might be capable of. There's a whole lot of Empire that needs restoring...
Wow, Great work, Yogi. Just had a chance to catch up with your brilliant work. You, Mett and I should start a Roman WritAAR's Club :rofl:
:rofl:
North of Rome, Italia
Western Roman Empire
Anno Domini 462
Julius Valerius Majorianus, clearly recognisable in gilded armour and purple cloak, stood at the top of the battlements of the tower that made up the northern head of the Milvian Bridge, looking out over the battlefield to be. His own forces, or at least the infantry element of them, were arranged in a semi-circle around the northern bridgehead, with the flanks anchored on the Tiber. Fighting north of the river had been a gamble, but a necessary one: deploying around the southern bridgehead would have given a much stronger position, so strong in fact that Ricimer would have been a fool to try to force it, and would probably have led to him marching east across the Apennines and around the Tiber entirely, thus negating any positional advantage for the Emperor. Still, the Tiber would prevent an orderly retreat and a rout would lead to slaughter, just as had happened to the Augustus Maxentius a century and a half earlier.
Majorianus’s twelve Palatine Legions made up the main battle line. Each man was heavily armoured in chain mail and steel helm, and was armed with a stout Hasta spear, a Spatha sword and a great oval shield on the back of which five led-weighted throwing darts were mounted. These elite troops would fight hard and give good account of them selves, of that the Emperor was certain. Hopefully Ricimer’s army would smash itself to pieces against their steely ranks until his planned counterattack would rout it.
Behind the curving line of the Palatine Legions, the Vandal horde, 12.000 strong was milling about restlessly. The Emperor intended to use these fierce fighters as reserve, either to shore up the line at a point of crisis or to strike back at a faltering enemy. Between the ordered Palatine ranks and the amorphous barbarian mass, thin lines of archers, both Roman and Vandal, stood ready to rain their arrows over the enemy. And in the tower itself, there was another surprise for Ricimer…
Across the field, the Patrician’s forces were drawn out in a huge semi-circle, mirroring the deployment of the Army Praesental.
Gaeseric, standing beside the Emperor in the same black armour he had worn at Carthago, looked at the approaching enemy and whistled softly. ‘Damn! Imperator, if I had known you had THAT many enemies I might have taken my chances at Carthago. I can’t say our odds seem any better here than there!’
The Augustus hinted at a smile with the corners of his mouth, but didn’t answer. His heart was thumping wildly, and he felt cold despite the summer heat. How in the name of the Crucified God was he supposed to hold his own against such a huge force? His throat felt parched, despite the abundant water he had drunk. No use, he longed desperately for wine. Surely a cup or two couldn’t hurt? But he had his rules, ever since making a fool of himself early in his career. Wine and good judgment were irreconcilable in him.
‘My troops will resist their onslaught, don’t you worry, King Gaeseric,’ the Emperor finally managed to say. ‘But then everything will depend on Arshad’s cavalry and your own counterattack.’
‘We won’t let you down, Imperator.’ Gaeseric answered, patting his battle axe. ‘Today we will show the world that the Vandals are not a diminished people.’
‘Look at the front ranks of Ricimer’s line!’ Majorianus pointed out. ‘Those aren’t legionaries, rather barbarians of some kind.’
Gaeseric shadowed his eyes with a wrinkled and callused hand, and snarled. ‘Herulians! I recognize their standards. They’re scum – lapdogs to the Hun before Nedao. I guess other tribes will have been giving them a rough time ever since.’
‘And now they serve Ricimer. He always preferred to use Germans, there can’t be many Romans in that army.’
‘There’s not very many Romans in your army either, Imperator!’ the Vandal King pointed out curtly.
‘Let’s just say there’s not very many of any kind in my army, and leave it at that!’ Majorianus answered with a bitter smile.
‘All the greater share of glory for each man then!’ Gaeseric patted his battle axe almost lovingly and left the tower to join his men on the ground below. Majorianus was left to peer out over the battlement alone.
Ricimer, Odoacer and Tiberius Marcellus, all in full battle armour, were also peeking out at the battlefield from the seats of their horses, but their view was much constricted by the verdant branches of trees and masses of shrubbery. The Patrician had stopped his lieutenants from riding out into the clear with a short, no-nonsense bark.
‘What’s the problem?’ Marcellus asked, looking mildly annoyed. ‘The whole army is drawn out in the open, why can’t we have a look as well?’
Ricimer just smiled and turned to one of his magnificently garbed bodyguards, who wore great yellow crests on their helmets and partially gilded scale mail. ‘You! Ride to the edge of the forest, have a look and come back and report.’
‘Sir!’
Ricimer now looked at the cornifer who accompanied the commanding general of every army, in this case the Patrician himself. ‘You! Go with him!’
‘Sir!’
The trio watched as the two riders gingerly approached the forest edge. Suddenly, something struck the bodyguard in the middle of his armoured chest. The German mercenary was thrown out of his saddle and tossed over the back of his horse to land in a bleeding and undignified heap on the ground in front of the cornifer, who was saved by a similar fate by his rearing horse. Instead the poor animal was struck in the abdomen by some kind of projectile and fell over, trashing and screaming piteously. The cornifer ran back on hands and feet, having suffered only some bruising.
‘That’s the problem.’ Ricmer explained in a tired voice. ‘Among the units of the Army Praesental are the Ballistares – arcuballista sharpshooters. The Augustus is sure to have deployed them in the tower of Pons Mulvius. They can’t shoot very quickly, but they are accurate, quite deadly and have a VERY long range. They’ll be on the lookout for officers today. I expect to loose a lot of those before we crush the Army Praesental.
Odoacer laughed like a madman, he had apparently found the whole episode extremely humorous. Marcellus on the other had suddenly acquired a pasty wax-white complexion that contrasted disgustingly with his black stubble. ‘Sweet Iesu! If you hadn’t warned us, Patrician…’
‘And if you hadn’t questioned me, Senator, that bodyguard would still be alive. Next time you do that, I will not let one of my loyal men die in your place. Is that understood?’
Marcellus nodded quickly, his eyes very wide indeed.
Odoacer moved his head about, and edged his horse this way and that until he had seen enough through the gaps in the foliage to get a good picture of the coming battle. Then he returned to Ricmer’s side.
‘Ricmier, the cavalry is being held back, behind the foot. Are you going to storm with nothing but infantry?’
The barbarian general nodded, seemingly undisturbed by the Herulian Chieftain’s apparent lack of respect in address. The Germans were a far less formal folk than the Romans, and less prone to flowery speech.
‘Yes. The Palatine Legions are the best of the Armies of the West. They would slaughter our light cavalry if they tried to assault their shield wall. This will be a work for the Legions, and for your men. I’m keeping the light horse in reserve for now – we still haven’t seen the Army Praesental’s heavy cavalry, but if they show up from some unexpected direction, my light horse should be able to stop them. After all, they outnumber them nearly ten to one, that should make up for less armour and lighter horses.’
The Army Praesental’s archers and arcuballistares opened up with the first salvo of the day, sending arrows and iron bolts raining over the approaching enemy ranks, tearing up gaps in their dense formations.
‘It has begun,’ Ricimer said calmly. ‘Audawakrs, go join your men. You look nothing like a Roman officer, you should be relatively safe from the sharp-shooters.’
The barbarian chieftain nodded. ‘I’ll bring you the head of the King of the Romans on a pike, Ricimer!’ he shouted before galloping off towards the sound of battle.
Western Roman Empire
Anno Domini 462
Julius Valerius Majorianus, clearly recognisable in gilded armour and purple cloak, stood at the top of the battlements of the tower that made up the northern head of the Milvian Bridge, looking out over the battlefield to be. His own forces, or at least the infantry element of them, were arranged in a semi-circle around the northern bridgehead, with the flanks anchored on the Tiber. Fighting north of the river had been a gamble, but a necessary one: deploying around the southern bridgehead would have given a much stronger position, so strong in fact that Ricimer would have been a fool to try to force it, and would probably have led to him marching east across the Apennines and around the Tiber entirely, thus negating any positional advantage for the Emperor. Still, the Tiber would prevent an orderly retreat and a rout would lead to slaughter, just as had happened to the Augustus Maxentius a century and a half earlier.
Majorianus’s twelve Palatine Legions made up the main battle line. Each man was heavily armoured in chain mail and steel helm, and was armed with a stout Hasta spear, a Spatha sword and a great oval shield on the back of which five led-weighted throwing darts were mounted. These elite troops would fight hard and give good account of them selves, of that the Emperor was certain. Hopefully Ricimer’s army would smash itself to pieces against their steely ranks until his planned counterattack would rout it.
Behind the curving line of the Palatine Legions, the Vandal horde, 12.000 strong was milling about restlessly. The Emperor intended to use these fierce fighters as reserve, either to shore up the line at a point of crisis or to strike back at a faltering enemy. Between the ordered Palatine ranks and the amorphous barbarian mass, thin lines of archers, both Roman and Vandal, stood ready to rain their arrows over the enemy. And in the tower itself, there was another surprise for Ricimer…
Across the field, the Patrician’s forces were drawn out in a huge semi-circle, mirroring the deployment of the Army Praesental.
Gaeseric, standing beside the Emperor in the same black armour he had worn at Carthago, looked at the approaching enemy and whistled softly. ‘Damn! Imperator, if I had known you had THAT many enemies I might have taken my chances at Carthago. I can’t say our odds seem any better here than there!’
The Augustus hinted at a smile with the corners of his mouth, but didn’t answer. His heart was thumping wildly, and he felt cold despite the summer heat. How in the name of the Crucified God was he supposed to hold his own against such a huge force? His throat felt parched, despite the abundant water he had drunk. No use, he longed desperately for wine. Surely a cup or two couldn’t hurt? But he had his rules, ever since making a fool of himself early in his career. Wine and good judgment were irreconcilable in him.
‘My troops will resist their onslaught, don’t you worry, King Gaeseric,’ the Emperor finally managed to say. ‘But then everything will depend on Arshad’s cavalry and your own counterattack.’
‘We won’t let you down, Imperator.’ Gaeseric answered, patting his battle axe. ‘Today we will show the world that the Vandals are not a diminished people.’
‘Look at the front ranks of Ricimer’s line!’ Majorianus pointed out. ‘Those aren’t legionaries, rather barbarians of some kind.’
Gaeseric shadowed his eyes with a wrinkled and callused hand, and snarled. ‘Herulians! I recognize their standards. They’re scum – lapdogs to the Hun before Nedao. I guess other tribes will have been giving them a rough time ever since.’
‘And now they serve Ricimer. He always preferred to use Germans, there can’t be many Romans in that army.’
‘There’s not very many Romans in your army either, Imperator!’ the Vandal King pointed out curtly.
‘Let’s just say there’s not very many of any kind in my army, and leave it at that!’ Majorianus answered with a bitter smile.
‘All the greater share of glory for each man then!’ Gaeseric patted his battle axe almost lovingly and left the tower to join his men on the ground below. Majorianus was left to peer out over the battlement alone.
***
Ricimer, Odoacer and Tiberius Marcellus, all in full battle armour, were also peeking out at the battlefield from the seats of their horses, but their view was much constricted by the verdant branches of trees and masses of shrubbery. The Patrician had stopped his lieutenants from riding out into the clear with a short, no-nonsense bark.
‘What’s the problem?’ Marcellus asked, looking mildly annoyed. ‘The whole army is drawn out in the open, why can’t we have a look as well?’
Ricimer just smiled and turned to one of his magnificently garbed bodyguards, who wore great yellow crests on their helmets and partially gilded scale mail. ‘You! Ride to the edge of the forest, have a look and come back and report.’
‘Sir!’
Ricimer now looked at the cornifer who accompanied the commanding general of every army, in this case the Patrician himself. ‘You! Go with him!’
‘Sir!’
The trio watched as the two riders gingerly approached the forest edge. Suddenly, something struck the bodyguard in the middle of his armoured chest. The German mercenary was thrown out of his saddle and tossed over the back of his horse to land in a bleeding and undignified heap on the ground in front of the cornifer, who was saved by a similar fate by his rearing horse. Instead the poor animal was struck in the abdomen by some kind of projectile and fell over, trashing and screaming piteously. The cornifer ran back on hands and feet, having suffered only some bruising.
‘That’s the problem.’ Ricmer explained in a tired voice. ‘Among the units of the Army Praesental are the Ballistares – arcuballista sharpshooters. The Augustus is sure to have deployed them in the tower of Pons Mulvius. They can’t shoot very quickly, but they are accurate, quite deadly and have a VERY long range. They’ll be on the lookout for officers today. I expect to loose a lot of those before we crush the Army Praesental.
Odoacer laughed like a madman, he had apparently found the whole episode extremely humorous. Marcellus on the other had suddenly acquired a pasty wax-white complexion that contrasted disgustingly with his black stubble. ‘Sweet Iesu! If you hadn’t warned us, Patrician…’
‘And if you hadn’t questioned me, Senator, that bodyguard would still be alive. Next time you do that, I will not let one of my loyal men die in your place. Is that understood?’
Marcellus nodded quickly, his eyes very wide indeed.
Odoacer moved his head about, and edged his horse this way and that until he had seen enough through the gaps in the foliage to get a good picture of the coming battle. Then he returned to Ricmer’s side.
‘Ricmier, the cavalry is being held back, behind the foot. Are you going to storm with nothing but infantry?’
The barbarian general nodded, seemingly undisturbed by the Herulian Chieftain’s apparent lack of respect in address. The Germans were a far less formal folk than the Romans, and less prone to flowery speech.
‘Yes. The Palatine Legions are the best of the Armies of the West. They would slaughter our light cavalry if they tried to assault their shield wall. This will be a work for the Legions, and for your men. I’m keeping the light horse in reserve for now – we still haven’t seen the Army Praesental’s heavy cavalry, but if they show up from some unexpected direction, my light horse should be able to stop them. After all, they outnumber them nearly ten to one, that should make up for less armour and lighter horses.’
The Army Praesental’s archers and arcuballistares opened up with the first salvo of the day, sending arrows and iron bolts raining over the approaching enemy ranks, tearing up gaps in their dense formations.
‘It has begun,’ Ricimer said calmly. ‘Audawakrs, go join your men. You look nothing like a Roman officer, you should be relatively safe from the sharp-shooters.’
The barbarian chieftain nodded. ‘I’ll bring you the head of the King of the Romans on a pike, Ricimer!’ he shouted before galloping off towards the sound of battle.
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Sacrificing his own loyal men just to prove a point? This Ricimer doesn't sound like a good guy...
YES I was afraid this AAR had gone the way of the dodo, I'm pleased to see I was wrong to dispare o
Great story telling as usualy Yogi.
o Great story telling as usualy Yogi.
Glad to see this AAR still being updated, can't wait for the conclusion to the battle... I sure hope Majorianus has something major up his sleeve...
This is an unexpectedly powerful llittle paragraph, or so I found. A very deft touch.
Sweet! Welcome back, Yogi. I'm pleased to see your use of the Milvian Bridge battlefield. That same pic now forms part of my desktop wallpaper. A good story, sir.
The Yogi said:
Ricmier is a true villain. I hope his miserable life will meet an abrupt end in the upcoming battle.
Ricimer is simply trying to save the empire from a wine sot, can't you see that.
Great to see you back Yogi!
Great to see you back Yogi!
Great to see this back. Your latest chapter complements my barbarian blood with a lust for battle... so I'd guess that's pretty good for what I suppose is just a prelude to the real engagement!
Let's hope the second battle of the Milvian Bridge works out as well as the first one for the Western Emperor.
Your latest chapter complements my barbarian blood with a lust for battle... so I'd guess that's pretty good for what I suppose is just a prelude to the real engagement! Let's hope the second battle of the Milvian Bridge works out as well as the first one for the Western Emperor.
Thanks for all your comments. I have little time right now to answer them all as they deserve, but be sure that I have read and taken to heart each one. And now - bring on the battle!