December 486
By the end of 486, the fledgling Roman state focused all eyes on Ravenna, where Claudius’ thorough and agonizingly slow siege of the city ground on, gradually bringing an assurance of success after years of fortification and draining of the surrounding swamplands. The scoffing and taunting of the defenders and indeed, some of those in Rome itself, were beginning to give way to nervous anticipation. The general’s constant probing of the Italian defenses was looked upon with growing seriousness as the ground around Ravenna dried up, giving his troops access to weaker portions of the city defense. It was only a matter of time, citizens began to cautiously whisper. In his restored and isolated palace on the Palatine, Romulus began to dream of bigger and better things. His erstwhile commander and rumored rival, Remus Macrinus, was foisted off to Gaul, and the state belonged completely to the young Imperator. Grand plans were being made for Sicily, where King Gunthamund of the Vandals, having succeeded his unpopular uncle Huneric, was making noisy gestures towards the last Italian garrisons in Syracuse and Messana. Romulus, who if he lacked experience did not lack imagination, dreamed of a lightning campaign of reconquest of that strategic island. A nervous citizenry, poor and exhausted, was quiet for a time and kept its counsel while their rulers plotted.
Few eyes spared enough of a glance for affairs to the west and east. Having suffered Syagrius’ defiance long enough, Clovis, the pagan King of the Franks, began the opening battles in his campaign of conquest of the last Roman vestiges in Gaul. Not to be outdone, the Visigoths were themselves nibbling at the Gallic flank. Their dying King, Euric, was also continuing his persecutions of Catholics in his realm, causing unrest in Arles and other regions. The passing of Huneric of the Vandals and soon, Euric of the Visigoths, represented a possible shift in the attitudes of Arian barbarians towards Catholicism.
In the east, the Romans and their Gothic allies were beginning to tire of the mountain campaign in Dalmatia, where an aging General Ovida continued to defy their armies. Whispers spread that settlement was imminent, turning Roman eyes elsewhere. Emperor Zeno, having suffered the double betrayal of Illus and the man sent against him, Leontius, needed Theodoric’s armies in Syria. Civil unrest continued to keep the Roman eye firmly planted in the East, away from Italia and its religious defiance.
Most who gave any thought to the West knew that the next steps lay in the conclusion of the siege at Ravenna, and the passage westward of a small party, whether or not it included one of the greatest military minds in Italia, seemed of little consequence.
The Alps stood as distant sentinels, emerging from the foggy horizon to gleam with white majesty. The peaks were deceptively short from such a distant vantage, promising an ordeal at one’s approach. They were guardians, comforting in their mass, the rider thought, gripping the woolen blanket tighter around his chest. The morning snows had receded, yet the chilling wind refused to loosen its grip on the rider and his two companions, pushing their away across the barren Cisalpine plains. Sharp blasts rubbed their cheeks raw as they kept their heads bowed, trotting determinedly westward, neither wishing to exhaust their mounts nor delay their urgent journey. None looked forward to the mountainous passage.
Ad destinationem per callem, the rider mused.
He risked a glance at the man to his right, who nodded to the mountain range.
”You waste your comfort, general. The Alps are meaningless on any Roman map. We could run into patrols by midday, if we’re not careful.”
Remus grunted, remembering the campaigns fought here over the past years, the Burgundians pouring through the Mons Genava Pass to overrun the Alpine frontier, forcing yet another humiliation upon Italia. He knew little of the campaign itself, having been preoccupied with his own survival in Campania. Yet the shift of geography only made things more difficult for their passage into Gaul, adding leagues to their trip, and giving unwelcome strangers a perfect vantage point from which to watch their approach. Even now, he mused, tightening his hand on the bridle, scouts could be watching them now, three black dots on a white background, meandering their westward along the narrowing Padus.
Arenius’ mouth tightened, satisfied that all three were aware of the risks.
”It was kind of the Imperator to spare us these mounts. It’s a shame there weren’t any spare soldiers to escort us---“ The Gallic soldier gestured with a wink to the two spare horses they towed, more pack mounts than warhorses. The three of them wore their banded leather coats, covered with winter blankets, their armor laying hidden amongst their baggage. Speed was even more important than defense on this trek, as was disguise. Wearing his mail and helmet in these parts would attract more attention to Remus than it would deter.
Frowning, Arenius paused as Remus held up his hand.
”Enough,” the general said softly, looking away to hide what he believed was insincerity showing on his expression. He winced slightly and attempted to shift his left leg, the subtle pain from his injury still throbbing its defiance.
To his left, Gillenus grimaced with thinly concealed mirth.
”You weren’t quite so cautious in the palace, magister. I recall that you---”
”You know my mind, Gillenus. Both of you.” Remus looked as if he were forcing the words out through his teeth, enjoying a means of solace from their nobility.
”Ego imperatori auxilior,” he nodded meaningfully to his companions before resuming his nervous appraisal of the distant mountains. From time to time he studied the ground, struggling to keep track of the fading Via Aemelia. Skirting past memories at Mediolanum, they had headed westward through Placentia into the less frequented regions of Cisalpine Gaul, where the roads were beginning to give way. Although tempted to strike out directly for the Mons Genava, they had decided in the end to take a longer, more secure route along the roadway.
Even as he said the words, he wondered if there was much truth to them. Emperor’s servant, indeed. Surely he couldn’t deny that the ideals of Roman virtue he had clung to in his past struggles had not borne the fruit he had sought? Romulus was no Hadrian, though Remus often used the excuse of youth to maintain his line of thinking, as he did so now. Duty, however, bound him to serve, even if the object of that service fell short.
Whom else could he serve, anyhow? There was scarcely anyone left, he mused, idly scanning the featureless terrain, with eddies and rises in the forlorn winter grasslands. He had lost Gnaeus and Gaius, his two military comrades in arms. Selenus was playing soldier at Ravenna. There was no one he could trust near enough to do him any good, he brooded. In his life, he had pushed all women away save for the occasional respite, and even in his army career, few survived. It was the old adage of the legions, to make no friends and thus to grieve not. It was as Romulus wished, he brooded with a real sense of melancholy,
tristia even. Remus brought nothing to Gaul but himself.
No one said a word for a few tense moments and the trio lapsed once more into quiet. It was this preoccupation that perhaps prevented them from noticing the three horsemen sitting idly astride the rode, at least until it was too late.
Their leader, a fair-haired warrior with sword and a round shield, rode confidently forward. Although he wore no helmet, his plain hide cloak was offset by a vivid scarlet belt, a clear sign of status among his tribe.
”Burgundians,” Gillenus whispered to Remus, who smirked at the obvious.
”Tace,” he growled softly, turning as the warrior held up his hand.
The warrior spoke in an unfamiliar language, reminding Remus of the guttural tongue Modestus sometimes spoke. Only the use of his name, a perfectly pronounced ‘Remus Macrinus’ emerging from among the strange words, stopped him cold. Almost as if the man had been made to practice the words. His hand drifted unconsciously to his hilt, a gesture which caused the Burgundian to smile and gesture to their flanks. As Remus had expected, they were hemmed in by ten more warriors, whose serious expressions told of being no stranger to combat. He politely folded his hands back to his side.
Again, the warrior spoke, which against brought the use of his name. Seeing Remus and his companions’ frowns, he mumbled something, possibly a curse, and irritably waved one of his men forward. They whispered heatedly before the new man, a darker, more swarthy warrior, shouted in passable Latin.
”You, general Remus. The great and brave Gundicar asks why you did not leave the road earlier. Why come you this far west?”
Like the use of this name, this also gave Remus pause, for they had originally planned precisely that, to leave the Via Aemelia along a tributary of the Padus, which would allow them to strike the Mons Genava a few days earlier. Why had he chosen an alternate route, he though to himself? Instinct? Clearly it served him well, at least for a time. Whatever this was, the Burgundians were expecting him. Either they were easily observed from the mountains, as he had feared, or something had told of their passage. It seemed apparent who it was, for surely the tribes trusted one another more readily than they trusted anything Roman.
He watched as the Burgundian patrol trotted forward, and he wondered if their tight grip on their spears’ boded ill for them. His journey to Gaul might be over before it began.