The Last Maurician

[Eparkhos]

12 July 609
Malaca

Flavius Iustinianus Mauricius tightened the rope tying the corpse to the saddle and stepped back to examine his work. It was fairly good, if you didn’t look too hard it looked like he had only died recently. He tied the horse’s lead to the back of his saddle and mounted his own.

He was riding through a part of Hispania that would have been quite nice if it weren’t for the burning buildings and corpses scattered across the road. He spurred his horse on and tried not to look at them.

After a few hours of riding in the hot sun and dry, dusty wind he was drenched in sweat and a foul stench was starting to come off of the body. Not good, if it smelled too bad they might not believe him. He shook his head and kept riding.

The sky was streaked with red and pink when the wind began to change. The feeling on his face went from a hard, course stream to a soft ocean breeze. A small grey dot appeared on the horizon. He smiled. Malaca.

The stars were already high in the sky when arrived outside the city. The area around the city was desolate, with no trees or plants and the only sound the rustle of the burnt grass. He rocked back in his saddle and shouted over the wall, “Sentry!”

The only response was the soft rustle of the grass.

“SENTRY!”

“What?! What the hell is it that you can’t wait till morning!”

A head popped over the walls, a faint orange glow lighting up the side of his face closest to his lantern.

“Magister Militum Quintus Decius, here to take command of the province.”

“Sure you are. Go back to Vagrila.”

The head disappeared.

“Well, I’m not him. I’m the magister equites. And you might want to get a look at him.”

The voice came quieter. “Sure I do.”

“’Cause he’s got an arrow in his neck.”

There was a faint sigh from on top of the walls.

“Fine. But if you do anything I’ll cut your balls off myself.”

He rolled back forward in the saddle and looked expectantly at the gates. They were heavily scarred with cracks, both the new fresh white and the old dark tan. After a few minutes the gates creaked open, slowly drawing backwards until there was a space barely wide enough to ride through. Behind the gates was a gatehouse, with another pair of gates behind them, similarly opened. It opened onto a courtyard, faintly lit by sputtering torches but empty. He reigned in just outside the second gate. A bloodcurdling screech echoed from behind him and he whirled around to the gates closing. And he felt the press of cool metal against his neck.

“Don’t move.”
His eyes flicked sideways. A group of spearmen were crowded against the wall next to the gates. By all rights he should have seen them. Shit.
“Felix, go around and untie the magister militum.”
He tracked Felix as he circled around to the second horse. The man took one whiff of the corpse and turned away, hand over mouth.
“Kentarches! He’s dead!”
The man with the spear to his throat glared at Felix. “Of course he’s dead. You couldn’t smell him coming in?”
“No.”
He looked up at the sky, grimacing and no doubt screaming internally. After a few seconds he looked back at the man and said “Go through his pockets. He should have a paper with the imperial seal on it.”
Felix pulled the coat off of the corpse and started going through the pockets, the kentarches kept the spear at Iustinianus’ throat the whole time. After a few minutes a wad of papyrus was produced.
He frowned as he scanned it. “Yeah, it says he was appointed by… Tiberius III.” He looked up at stared at the kentarches. “Did we have a Tiberius III?”
The kentarches blinked. “I don’t know.”
Iustinianus coughed, only to feel the spear press harder against his neck. He choked out a quiet “Yes, between Mauricius and Phocas.”
The kentarches stared at him with cold eyes. Shit, he knew. He’d slipped up and was going to die for it. And then the man turned to Felix and said “Oh yeah, I forgot. He was between Mauricius and Phocas. Reigned 602 to 603. Now stable the horses and bury the poor man.”
He turned back to Iustinianus. “Now, what was it, magister equites? If you’d be willing to come with me then Felix’ll take care of your horse.”
Iustinianus nodded and dismounted

 

[Eparkhos]

The kentarches slammed the door shut behind them. They were in a small room, which had a table with an unrolled scroll and a lit lamp on it with two chairs up against the left wall and a rumpled cot in the back. He gestured for Iustinianus to sit. He did. The kentarches started pacing along the far wall.
“Who the hell are you?” he snapped.
“Magister Equites Flavius Iustinianus Mauricius.”
“Bullshit. No Magister Equites would have access to a royal seal.”
“I didn’t the emperor did.”
“Boy, if you tell me that Tiberius III gave your corpse buddy this command, I’m gonna throw you off the wall.”
“I’m not going to tell you that.”
“Then did how’d you get it?”
“I stole it from the palace.”
“The hell you-“ The kentarches stopped and grimaced up at the ceiling. “Mauricius. How the hell did I miss that?” He turned and looked Iustinianus in the eye.
“Brother, cousin, or nephew? And why shouldn’t I arrest you and give you over to Phocas right now?”
Iustinianus stared back at him. “How many men do you have in the city, kentarches?”
“One hundred and twenty seven.”
“How many in all of Spania?”
“Don’t know.”
“But not many, right? I rode past four abandoned outposts on my way here. Malaga is the only city left, and if it has less than one-fifty there can’t be much more than two hundred in the province. Can you really waste one man? Phocas doesn’t know I’m here. If you turn me over he’ll just leave you here to die. I’ve been in the capital. The Avars have been raiding down to the Long Walls. The Lombards are outside Ravenna and the Persians are flooding across the frontier. Africa is in rebellion. No reinforcements are coming. No one cares about Spania. Except me.”
The kentarches looked at him with a grim expression. He sighed, nodding, and stuck out his hand. “Leontius Aurelianus Symmachius. I don’t think it would be wise to call you Mauricius in these circumstances, Magister Equites. There should be a spare bunk in the barracks.”
Iustinianus nodded and started to walk out, then stopped and turned on the threshold.
“How many horses are in the city.”
“Somewhere around forty. Why?”

 

[Eparkhos]

A Map:

Light Purple: Spania
Blue: Calla Federation (Nicean Romano-Berber Federation)
Dark Purple: Africae
Green: Visigothic Kingdom

 

[Eparkhos]

13 July 609
Iustinianus was woken by the sun on his face. He had slept in one of the many empty bunks in the city's barracks, with a dagger under his pillow in case Aurelianus had a change of heart.
He rose quickly and was in the streets of the city less than five minutes after he woke. They were deserted, covered in a thick layer of dust that hinted at a long period of neglect and decline. He followed the sound of a clanging hammer towards the city’s blacksmith, passing only and old hag chasing chickens along the way.
The smithy was in the crumbling ruins of a thermae huddled up against the corner of one of the city’s walls. Iustinianus walked in through one of the broken arches and followed the trail of smoke through the building. The sound of metal on metal rose as walked.
The smith himself was in the frigidarium, his forge hacked into the side of the pool and his back to the door. He stopped under the arch into the room, unsure of how to proceed. He waited until the blows stopped before faking a hacking cough to get the man’s attention.
“If Leontius wants swords he needs to get me the iron for it.”
The voice was gnarled and dry, speaking of age and weariness. “I’m not from Leontius.”
“Yes, you are. You’re wearing officer’s garb, and he’s the garrison commander.”
“How can you-“
“Look up.”
He did so. A small square sheet of polished metal was embedded in the domed ceiling opposite the door.
“How did you…”
“I didn’t. It was there when I was an apprentice, when my master was an apprentice and when his master was an apprentice and so on.” The smith stared up at it. “I climbed up there ‘bout thirty years ago and there was an inscription on it that said “ALEXANDER AVGVSTVS. Don’t know which.” He shook his head and looked back to his tools. “Like I said. Leontius wants swords, he needs to get me the iron for ‘em.”
“I’m Leontius’ superior, actually.”
The smith still didn’t turn around, just shrugged. “And?”
“I don’t need swords, I need you to make more of these.” He pulled a pear-shaped ring about as large as his spread hand from his pocket and holds it so that it could be seen by the mirror.
“Come here.” There was an annoyed tone to the smith’s voice. “I can’t see something that small from here.”
Iustinianus climbed down into the dried pool, stopping next to the man. He held it out again. The smith snatched it from him and held it up to a missing chunk of the ceiling. He glanced over at Iustinianus.
“How many of these do you want?”
He thought back to the previous night’s conversation with the kentarches.
“Eighty.”
The smith nodded, then grabbed a wooden box filled with metal scrap.
“This is all I have. I can make three of them.”
He grimaced. “That’s all?”
“That’s all. Now, if you could get me some iron I could make as many as you need.”
“Iron…”
The smith handed it back to him. “If you’re willing, there’s an old mine about ten miles to the west.”
Ten miles. Across Visigothic land. Hell no.
“I’ll see what I can get.” he said, walking away.

 

[Eparkhos]

15 July 609 ~10:00

A search of the city had dug up a bundle of old gladii in a sewer, a half-empty barrel of nails in the basement of a warehouse, two suits of mail armor in the attic of an abandoned house, a full kataphractoi kit buried in the hay of a feed lot, ten legionary kits from the reign of Postumus and dozens of other bits and ends. The few things they couldn’t use immediately were melted down to make more of the loops. Ansulae was the closest translation from the Avar word for them.
But there still weren’t enough, and so Iustinainus sat on his horse outside the walls of Malaca waiting for the few men from the city who could supposedly ride to mount up. He scanned the crests of the nearby hills for any movement. There wasn’t any.
He turned back to face the gate. There were seven men in the saddle, carrying a motly collection of spathae and lances. Only one of them was sitting in a way that wouldn’t get him thrown in five seconds. He couldn’t have been long past his sixteenth birthday.
“You!” Iustinainus said, pointing at him. “What’s your name?”
“Miles Aulus Delius, sir!” he said, shooting up in the saddle and snapping a salute.
“I’m promoting you to Decurio. Now,” he turned to the other men. “Lean forward in the saddle-“ he glanced over at the back of the group. He stopped. “For the love of God, are you really sitting on the horns?” He groaned internally. “Alright, all of you sit on the flat part of the saddle and put your legs between the horns.”
The ‘cavalrymen’ did so. They were still ungainly, but at least they wouldn’t kill themselves after two minutes. It would take more time than he had to get them into a better state.
He sighed. “Try to stay together, keep your weapons either sheathed or above head level. And if you see anything moving, tell me immediately.”
He turned his horse around and spurred it on. After about a minute with no following hoofbeats he reigned in and turned in the saddle.
“Decurio! Get you men in order and follow!”
Delius shot back up in the saddle and looked back at the rest of the group. “Come on, men! Move!”
Iustinainus spurred into a trot, and this time it was followed.

 

[Eparkhos]

Alright, so I've got to the point where I can start writing again, but the schedule will be somewhat shaky. I'm hoping for every other day at the worst.
—————
15 July 609 - ~2 hours later

Iustinainus glanced down at the road and then back up at the hills. They were still quiet, the sky blessedly blue with no trace of the dust clouds that would mark an approaching army. He looked back at the riders behind them. They were strung out along the road, but somehow none of them had gotten themselves. Impressing, in a way. He looked forward again. They were coming up on the ruins of a small tower. Inscribed on it in huge letters in a script that he couldn’t read. He reigned up.
“Delius!”
The Decurio rode up beside him. “Yes, Magister?”
Iustinainus pointed at the building. “What does that say?”
Delius cocked his head. “I can’t read Punic well, but I think it says ‘something something Annibas.’” he looked over at Iustinainus “It’s about eight hundred years old, sir.”
Iustinainus nodded, then swung off his saddle and handed the reigns to Delius. “I’m going to go see if there’s anything salvageable inside. Yell when the rest of the men catch up.”
“Magister, I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
He waved him off. “I’ll be fine.”
Delius started to protest, but sighed and closed his mouth.
Iustinainus stopped in front of the rotting door that hung over the entrance. He could make out faint Latin lettering on it. AVGVSTVS. Evidently Annibas hadn’t been the last one to use it. He gently pushed it open, only for it to crash to the ground in a cloud of splinters. At least he could be sure that there weren’t any Visigoths hiding inside. Or anyone, for that matter.
The first floor consisted of of one room, with a small kitchen and rotting bunks on the far wall. The floor was stone, but he still stepped lightly as he crossed the room. He picked up a small iron pot up off a hearth and flipped it over. A few bronze furcae fell out. He picked them up and put them back in. He rifled through the bunks and found a small iron knife and a copper crucifix, as well as many other smaller items that had rotted out. He scanned the rest of the floor for the glint of metal before easing his way up the wooden stairs to the second floor.
Most of the furniture had rotted away, leaving only the remains of a few crates on the second floor. He raked through them, producing a broken buccinae. He softly walked across to a small interior wall that was covered with a tattered blue cloak. He pushed it aside. Jackpot.
Four thyresoi were hung on the wall. He pulled them down and tiptoed back down the stairs and out through the empty doorway. The whole search took about fifteen minutes.
Delius and five other horsemen were waiting outside. They were all staring agape back towards Malaca. He did as well.
Horn-boy, the kid who hadn’t even known which part of the saddle to sit on, was riding towards them. Backwards. Sitting sideways in the saddle. Iustinainus grabbed the reigns of the horsemen nearest to him.
“What’s your name, Miles?”
He sighed, stared at horn-boy, before responding in a thick African accent."Quintus Orcivius, sir."
Iustinainus untied his cloak, put the things from the fortress in it and tied it back up. He handed it to Quintius and said, “Take this back to Malaca and don’t let anyone open it until either I get back or three days from now if we don’t return. Take that retard- what’s his name?”
“Lucius Orcivius, sir.”
He paused. “Is he your brother?”
“Cousin, sir.”
“Alright, take this and your cousin back to Malaca. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Quintus tied the sack to his saddle and rode towards Horn-boy. Iustinainus grabbed the reigns from Delius and mounted. He nodded to the Decurio, then continued along the road. Delius started shouting orders as he rode on.

 

[Eparkhos]

16 July 609 ~12:00

As they rode on past the tower, Iustinianus couldn’t help but feel that a cloud of desolation was wrapping itself around him. The landscape was sharp and hilly, with the mountains rising to his left and the flat plain of the sea barely visible on the horizon. There were no forests, no plants and hardly any grass, all stripped away by years of constant warfare.
Across the barren land were the ruins of old Roman villas and their accompanying buildings. Their once-white marble walls were bleached yellow by decades of neglect under the harsh Iberian sun and their wooden supports had either been taken or rotted away. The land itself oozed with a feeling of illness and decline.
“Vanitas, vanitas…” he sighed, thinking of both the builders of the abandoned structures and of the pride of namesake.
“…universias vanitas.”
He glanced behind him. Delius had ridden up to a few feet behind him and was scanning the crests of the surrounding hills. Good, he was a quick learner. Iustinianus looked up at the peaks as well. The only sound was the clatter of hooves on the old road and the whistling hiss of the wind through burnt stalks.
After a few minutes, the decurio broke the silence.
“What are we looking for?”
“Iron. There’s a mine about-“
“Twenty miles out.” Iustinianus glared back at him. Delius’ expression didn’t change “Hadrianus, the smith, won’t shut up about it. I was asking about what you were looking for when he look at the hills.”
“First of all, don’t cut me off.” he snapped. After he few seconds he spoke. “Dust clouds. They’re kicked up by any force of size marching.”
“What color?” There was a twinge of tension in his voice. Iustinianus stopped and turned to face him.
“Light brown, why?”
“Drifting upwards, not low on the ground?” there was a tight cord of tension in his voice.
“Yes.”
Delius’ expression was somewhere between a grimace and a look of fright. “Sir, I saw a very large light brown cloud back when we were leaving Malaca.”
“Where from?”
“The hills to the west of the city.”
He rocked forward in the saddle, clenching its front and pressing his face against its bridge. A million thoughts flew his mind, most of them I—We—are so dead. After a few seconds he forced himself to take a breath and go through what Mauricius had taught him.
Position. A few hours’ ride from the nearest Roman outpost. Threat. A sizable Visigothic force between him and Malaca. Assets. Six horsemen, all but two novice riders. Outside factors. None. Plan. Plan? Run like hell.
He looked back up. Delius was staring at him with a grave look. Another of the horsemen had ridden up behind them, looking back and forth between them. He put his head back down. Could they even make it? Probably not, but they had lost too much time already.
But if the Visigoths had already taken the city, there would be no refuge there. They would have to ride for Sparteriosis. Did they have enough supplies to even get to Sparteriosis?
He sat back up and leaned back in the saddle. “Decurio, ride back to Malaca. Stop a few miles outside the town, see if the Visigoths are there. If they aren’t, come out and get us. We’ll be at the mines. Got it?”
Delius gave a sharp nod.
“Repeat it back to me.”
“Go to Malaca, if the Visigoths aren’t there, ride out and get you.” he blinked “Magister, what do I do if the Goths are there?”
Iustinianus blinked back. "Run."

 

[Eparkhos]

17 July 609
~06:00

“Magister!”
Iustinianus’ eyes flicked open. The sky was tinted with the light purple of pre-dawn and a few stars were still visible. He blinked. Something seemed wrong. Then it hit him. He could see the stars. No tent. They hadn’t brought tents on the expedition.
“Magister!”
His head snapped up. One of the miles—his thought his name was Lucius—was running up the side of the hill towards him. He scrambled to his feet, snatching his sword from the side of his bedroll.
“Yes, Miles?”
Lucius stopped a few feet before him, panting. “Delius…he’s back…Goths…at Malaca…and…they…wait, stop!”
He took off past Lucius, sprinting down the hill. The makeshift pen that the horses were tied up in, constructed from a few villa doors dragged across the mouth of a small depression, was open with the doors thrown aside and the rest of the Romans crowded around its mouth. He slowed as he came up on them, pushing aside the four others as they shot him worried looks.
Delius was slumped against the ground, two arrows protruding from his arm and back. His head hung limply over his other shoulder and he was faintly mumbling something that Iustinianus couldn’t make out. He stooped, kneelbeside him.
“Decurio.”
Delius tilted his head up, straining to looking Iustinianus in the eye.
“Magister…” he rasped.
“Yes?” Iustinianus said, trying to keep his voice calm in spite of his concern for the Miles—part personal and part logistical.
Delius began to respond, only for a cough to sieze him and spit a small bit of blood from his mouth. He stopped, took a deep breath and then finished his response. “There were Goths at Malaca…I counted at least eight hundred.” He coughed again, spitting up more blood, then gasped, “They followed…”
“They followed?” one of the other men interrupted, “How many is they?”
“Easy!” Iustinianus snapped, whipping around and glaring at him, “Let him breath!”
Behind him, Delius weakly moaned “I’m not sure…I think fifty.”
The magister resisted the edge to slam his head into the ground as panic rose in his chest. Fifty Goths? Fifty?! There was no way in hell that they could survive, let alone defeat that many enemies. His gut urge was to flee immediately, leaving everything behind and fleeing for Sparteriosis whether his men would follow or not.
Get it together, Iustinainus. Think. Position? Their camp was in a small valley, ringed by forested hills except for two small ruts, one of which the Goths would be coming through and the other of which led into a dried swamp. Threat? Fifty Gothic warriors, coming through one specific entrance to the dip. Assets? Five able-bodied men, one wounded, six horses, several bows and a few spears and their tents. Outside factors? He looked up. The sky was cloudless, and the locals had told him they were in the middle of a heatwave. Alright, he knew what he was working with.
He rose from his crouch, turning and beginning to pace. They hadn’t passed any streams on their way and had been drinking from their waterskins. Odds were, the Goths would’ve been scrambled after Delius and so wouldn’t have much water with them. They would be demoralized, thirsty and hot. Good, it wouldn’t take much to route—
Heat. Fire. Fill the tents with dry reeds, bait them into the valley and then block the openings, let them burn. He broke from his stride and turned to the nearest man.
“Name?”
“Phillippus Apprinius, sir.”
“Phillippus, you and him,” he pointed at the man next to him, “go and get as many dry reeds from that marsh that we found last night. Bring them to the camp, then go back and get some more.” He pivoted back to Delius. “How long do we have?”
“Maybe…a few hours.” he murmured.
Good, good. He spun around again, pointing to the other two men.
“You two get Delius up the hill, get him behind a log or something and then come back. Get all the food and weapons and other shit from the tents and put it with Delius. Make sure it’s well out of view. Make sure to leave the tents up, though.”
He faced them all. “Everyone know what they’re doing?”
They all nodded.
“I’m going to go take the horses up behind the hill. Go!”

 

[Eparkhos]

16 July, 609
~08:00

Iustinianus crouched behind the log, peering over it at the abandoned camp below. The tents were all packed, and he and one of the others were huddled behind logs, rock piles and trees in the hills above it, clutching bows. He looked down at the six arrows stuck into the ground beside him, running his finger down the nearest’s length to check for the sticky resin that was holding a small fuse. It was there, just as it was the previous ten times.
He looked up at a loud crack from the gully. There was a figure hunched at the space’s mouth, amongst the carpet of dried branches that had been placed there to signal an approach. He licked his lips and tugged one of the arrows up, placing it against the string but keeping it unlit. The figure took a few more cautious steps inside, then gestured back towards the opening. Several more trickled in after him, spreading out to ring the gully. He squatted down lower. Evidently, they believed that the Romans were still asleep in the camp. As the ring began to close, he began counting the figures. As the number of Visigothic warriors in the camp rose to 43, he lit the arrow, then sprang up and fired it into the air.
He had been a fairly quick shot back in Constantinople, and as the first arrow punched through the fabric of a tent he had already lit and knocked another, sending it off at another tent. There were several yells of confusion from the Visigoths, but they were overwhelmed by a terrific cracking sound as boulders fell onto the sticks and closed the pass out. More arrows fell from the other side of the gully, Marcus Dulcitius’ aim setting several tents alight. The Visigoths began to panic, running about like ants being chased by a child with a hot poker. The sides of the depression were steep, and as the barbarians tried to scramble up them they would slip and fall back down the slope. To his left, a Visigoth managed to boost himself to the lip and began to hall himself up. As his head came over the top, Iustinainus calmly put an arrow through his throat and he toppled back.
The fires spread, accompanied by agonized screams in Visigothic. There was no wind, and the smoke was left to hang over the depression as the growing flames burned through the oxygen in it. As the fire grew, the screams slowly died away. An occaisonal man managed to stagger up onto the rise, only to be taken by an arrow and fall back in. About an hour later the wind came up from the east, blowing away the smoke to reveal a camp littered with curled-bodies, most dead either from fire or from smoke inhilation.
He slid down the side of the hill with a sharp stick in hand, Dulcitius doing the same on the opposite side of the depression. They went through the bodies, stabbing them in the chest to ensure that they were dead. After a few minutes, the other man called out to him.
“Magister! This one’s a noble!”
Iustinianus stuck his spear into the testicles of the body he was closest to and picked his way as fast as he could towards Dulcitius. He was standing beside one of the burned corpses, with the point of his spear pressed against a spot on the Visigoth’s chest armor. He kicked it over as Iustinianus came close, revealing a burnished eagle on its surface, still visible through the ashes.
“What should we do with the body, sir?”
Iustinianus bit his lip, thinking. After a few seconds, he said “Leave it. The crows won’t care. But,” he turned to face the entry into the ruins of the camp, “A noble wouldn’t have come on foot, so this particular group was probably cavalry.”
“And since they were trying to sneak up on us, they probably left their horses far enough away that the holders might not’ve heard or seen anything.” Dulcitius finished.
Iustinianus turned back to him. “Very good. What are the names of the two who sealed the exits?”
“Philippus and Flavius, sir.”
“Thank you.” he turned and called out their names. The two popped out of the bushes at the sides of the hill, swords in hand.
“Follow us on the sides of the path. If you see anything, call out.”
They nodded, disappearing back into the scrub.

 

[Eparkhos]

17 July, 609
12:00

Iustinianus nodded toward the path and started walking, Dulcitius following a few steps behind. They scrambled up one of the more accessible sides, pushing aside bodies, then climbed back down onto the path on the far side of the barricades. They made their way down the road quietly, walking in the center to avoid the various detritus that were scattered along the sides. As they came out from the valley, the magister signaled to Dulcitius to stay low and out of view of the side fields. One curve on the path later, and they had a clear view of a half-dozen horse holders standing with the Visigothic horses in an empty field.

Iustinainus held out a hand to Dulcitius, then strode out into full view of the field. None of the horse-holders seemed to notice.

“Ho!” he shouted.

They all snapped up, several going for scabbards at their waists.

“Don’t bother,” he said, “there’s fourty bowmen in the brush, and each of ‘em’s got an arrow on one of you.”

One of the horse-holders, dressed and groomed as Visigothic as humanly possible, stepped out from behind one of the horses and said, in shaky, mispronounced Latin, “Not need. All be Romans.”

Iustinianus bit back a smile. “All be Romans?”

“All be Romans.” he had to be a noble, most likely a minor one but still ransom-able.

“Well then, if all be Romans then you’ll understand that if you don’t say ‘Sunna and Witteric will burn in hell’ back to me in Latin, you’ll be tortured to death with red-hot pokers.”

Four of the men in the back, all unarmed, started and quickly repeated the phrase, but the others just shot each other confused looks and the nobleman weakly said “Yes?”

Iustinianus nodded as if thinking, then called out to the Latin-speakers. “Are you conscripts?”

They all nodded.

“Alright, tell the Goths to drop their weapons and run, I’m giving them a five-minute head start. If you’re unwilling to fight for the Empire, you might as well go with them.”

One of them shouted what he guessed was the Visigothic version of that, then turned and ran. Most of the other dropped their scabbards and their horses’ reigns and took of after them, leaving only the noble and the conscripts standing amongst the steeds.
He stared Iustinianus dead in the eye. “You’re bluffing.”

Iustinianus snapped at the hills, hoping one of his men would see it. On cue, two arrows buried themselves in the dirt on the either side of the man’s feet. He turned and ran, hurling his sword away. Iustinianus paused a for a few seconds, watching the nobleman flee. Then he turned to the conscripts.

“I’m promoting you all to Miles. You two,” he pointed them out, “Get as many horses as you can together. And you,” he gestured to the third man, more of a boy, really, “Come with me.”

He turned and walked back into the brush, gesturing to the Philippus and Flavius to stay in place as Dulcitius emerged from behind a tree. The boy turned the edge of the hill, only to smack into Dulcitius’ back. He apologized profusely, falling in step behind the man.

The scrambled up the hill and then down again into the ruins of the camp. Iustinianus took a few steps out before the two, then turned and said “We’re going to have to go through the bodies and take any armor or weapons they have on them.”

Dulcitius nodded, walking off towards the nearest blackened corpse. The conscript, however, was agape and looked back and forth between the bodies and Iustinianus. He ignored him and started to walk towards one of the corpses. Behind him, the boy squeaked.

“But—we can’t—we can’t steal from the dead! It’s unholy!”

He sighed, annoyed. “What’s your name, Miles?”

“G-Gordianus Aëtius, sir.”

“Well, Gordianus,” he said, bending and tugging a scabbard from a belt, never breaking eye contact from the miles, “You’re right, we can’t steal from the dead. They’re already dead, they won’t miss it. Come on now, we need to have these all clear by nightfall.”

Gordianus slowly crept towards a heavily burned body with a spatha clenched in its fist. He trepidatedly tugged at the sword, only for the whole lower arm to snap off with a sound like breaking twigs. He puked into the grass, but to his credit he pulled the spatha free and placed it to the side.

Iustinianus looked back to his body and carried on.

 

[Eparkhos]

18 July, 609
~19:50
Visigothic Camp, ~1/2 mile west of Malaca

Vagrila set his cup back down on the folding table and reluctantly went back to scratching away at the small mound of papers on it. He sighed.

He had come to Malaca with a thousand men, expecting a quick and successful siege. Instead, the garrison commander, a decrepit old man who had to be older that Roman control of the city, had refused him the city. The spiteful bastard had even been able to get a convince a chunk of Vagrila's men that a massive reief army was coming overland from Spar-whatever-the-hell-it-was. Why couldn't the Romans just call it Cartagena like everyone else?

"Duc!"

Great, there was someone at the mouth of the tent. If it was another messenger from Witteric chewing him out for not recovering the southern coast again, he was going to march on the capital and hang him from Saint Eugenius' himself.

"Duc!"

He needed a drink.

"Duc!"

He stood up, knocking the stool down as he rose and stormed towards the mouth of the tent. His hand was on the inside of the flap before he realized that the man's voice was laced with fear and panic. He threw it open. The man was hopping nervously from foot to foot, glancing frantically from him to the horizon.

"What is it?!" Vagrila snapped.

He pointed at the hills to the north. Vagrila squinted at them, but all he could make out was a dark smear against the horizon, most likely the beginnings of night. He looked, irritated, at the man.

"What? What's so important about the night sky?"

The man pointed, whimpering, at a small patch of sunlight to the far left of the visible sky. Vagrila looked at the patch, then at the dark smear, then back to the patch. He was about to ask again what was so important when a small hole appeared in the smear.

"Holy Arius, that's a dust cloud."

From the size of the cloud, the force that was kicking up that much dust had to have been at least 3,000 men. There weren't that many fighting men in all of Baetica, so they couldn't have been his. So they must have been either a Royal army or the Romans.

Either would want him dead, and neither would be coming to help him.

He grabbed the man's shoulder. "Go to the nobles and tell them that we need to be out of here in" he looked at the cloud "ten minutes. Don't take anything they can't gather in ten minutes."

The man nodded, then took off running. Vagrila walked back into his tent, downed the rest of his wine, then calmly started walking towards the horse pens. Athalric had taken fifty of them after that Roman scout, leaving only twenty in the camp. Given that the chances of Witteric and or the Romans executing him was much higher than that of the average soldier, he didn't feel to bad for taking a mount.

---------------------------------------------------------

18 July, 609
~20:15
Almogium, 12 miles north of Visigothic Camp

"Magister!"

Iustinianus looked away from the rows of horses weaving back and forth across the small clearing. Gordianus was dashing towards him, grinning.

"The Goths are retreating!"

He allowed his dust-dried lips to smile. Granted, the Goths may just be faking a retreat to draw them down from the hills, but it still showed that his scheme had convinced them that he had a large force at his command.

Then his smile curved into a frown. There was no guarantee that they wouldn't return the next day, or the day after that.

Nevermind. For now, all he had to worry about was getting his men inside the city.

"Gordianus, go back to the cliff. Wait half an hour after the last Goths are out of sight, and then come back when they are."

The boy nodded, then bolted away again. Iustinianus looked back to the small herd of horses that the others were driving around the clearing. Most of them had bundles of armor and rocks tied to their tails, all of which were kicking up massive clouds of dust. A small cluster of horses tried to slip away through a gap.

"Keep it up!" he shouted, dashing to corral the break-aways, "The Goths are falling back!"

Several of the men gave a weak cheer. They were tiring, but still able to keep going. Hopefully, they could do so for longer than it took for the Goths to retreat. He jumped back into the circle, yelling and screaming at the horses.

 

[Eparkhos]

20 July, 609

~1300


Leontius leaned back into the curve of the arch, trying to get out of the glaring sun. God, he hated Iulius. No rain, no clouds, bright sun all the way until late Augustus, if you were lucky. He tucked the scroll of papyrus under his arm, then picked his bota from the ground and drank.


He idly looked out at the field beyond the walls. The remains of the Visigothic camp were strewn about it, many of the tents collapsed and folded in on themselves from their owner’s quick flight. Over the past two days, the Malacans had stripped the weapons, armor and other metals from it. Most of it was already dumped in the old arena. There was a lot of it, so much that every able-bodied soldier in the city was in the process of sorting. Which was why the kentarches was spending his 74th birthday keeping watch over the west gate.


A few moments later, someone called his name from the stone stairs down to the city. He glanced down. There was a small boy perched on one near the bottom.



“What is it, boy?” he called down.


“The council, sir! Caesarius has returned from Aquam Frigum and he’s called for a town assembly!”


He groaned internally. Marcus Iulius Caesarius’ voyage to the Baleares Islands-the Malacans called them ‘Aquam Frigum’, for the supposed coolness of their water-to gather aid for the city had been a lovely break from being reminded every thirty seconds of who was the son of a Jew and a freedwoman and who could trace their family back to Aeneas. The man was a control freak, and the mastermind of the marital conscription law.


He smirked, looking back to the hills. Then again, the Malacans were almost worshipping the new magister for driving off Vagrila. If he was able to use Iustinianus to turn the plebs against Caesarius, the latter would almost certainly be driven away. And he would most definitely enjoy that.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


A few hours later, he staggered into the amphitheater. The speaking/acting space was a narrow oval stretching about 130 feet long and 60 feet across; the height difference between that and the stands was 6 feet, and then another 5 to the linen tarp that was anchored to the low wall above the first three rows. Most of Malaca’s population, roughly 400, was scattered around inside. The city elders, numbering about a dozen, were sitting in the mouth of the opposite, sealed opening. Torches poked up from the walls, and a fire was being stoked in the middle.


Leontius scanned the crowd, hoping that Aemilianus, the physician, had gotten Iustinianus well enough to attend. After a few seconds, his eyes alighted upon him leaning in the frame of one of the side entrances with a teenager propping him up. He crossed over to the doorway, but as he came closer it became clear that the magister was barely upright. The boy was holding him up as well as he could and Iustinianus’ eyes were almost closed.


“Why the hell is he here?” he hissed.



The boy stammered out “Philippus said that you asked for him to come.”


“I didn’t.” Leontius said, “Did Aemilianus clear him?”


“No, sir. He only let him out after makin’ him drink a congius of nabed.”


“Nabed?”



“Opium, arrope and ceretanum. Moorish drink.”


Leontius looked worriedly to Iustinianus. That much ‘nabed’ would have had him out enough that he wouldn’t feel a sword through the neck. There was no way in hell that he should be in public. He grimaced and looked back to the boy.


“Take him back to wherever Aemilianus had him.”


The kid nodded, then turned and started dragging the magister down the stone corridor to the street. Leontius shook his head, then turned to face the amphitheater.


Just as he did so, Caesarius strode out from the open entrance. Although he was a sexigenarian, his hair was still streaked with brown and his chin and nose were as firm as those of a man half his age.


“Salve, Malacans! I go for two weeks to the Baleares, and when I come back you have replaced me!”


There were a few cautious laughs from the crowd, but for the most part they didn’t respond. Caesarius cocked his head and looked around. As he was about to continue, Leontius stepped out of the doorway.


“We didn’t replace you, Marcus. If you’ll think back to when Tiberius Constantius appointed you, you were given the title of Dux. Now, Iustinianus is Magister Militum of Spaniae. Magister outranks Dux. We didn’t replace you; You weren’t even replaced.” He paused. “And, might I say, he’s done a far better job against the Visigoths in five days than you have in that and thirty.”


About a dozen of the gathered began nodding. They were clustered around one of the side entrances; most of their faces were still dusty and several had red lines along their arms. Iustinianus’ cavalry.


Caesarius glared at him. “A fine thing for you to say, Leontius. You’ve been here since Liberius came. Kentarches, conquer thyself.”


He blinked. “One of the Jews says that to Christ during the crucifixion. Are you sure that our fortunes were the only thing that changed while you were amongst the Iueons?”


There were several stifled chuckles from the Malacans. Caesarius’ face slowly turned a flush purple, but in a flash the burning hatred disappeared from his face, replaced by a smile.


“Kentarches, I am most surprised that you believe I would be in the same circles as your whore of a mother.”


Leontius’ vision flashed red, but all he did was clench his fists against his side. If he were to start a brawl… at his age…


“Caesarius,” he hissed, “How long were you in Baleares?”


Caesarius looked at him calculatingly. “Three weeks.” he said slowly.


Leontius strode out from the side of the arena and turned to face the crowd.


“Three weeks! THREE GODDAMN WEEKS! Caesarius left us for three weeks when he knew that Vagrila was marching against us! Iustinianus has the seal of the emperor, the superior rank and, above all, risked his life in defense of Malaca!” he turned and stormed towards Caesarius, stopping a few feet in front of him. “And all while Caesarius, whose authority comes from a dead man, who was appointed by a barely legitimate emperor, one named after a persecutor of Christians to boot, was cowering away in the islands!”


He turned back towards the Malacans. “By God, why did we allow him in from the port?”


A current of murmurs spread over the Malacans and Caesarius stepped back, glaring at Leontius.


“Damn you,” he hissed, “Something is wrong here. And when I know, I’ll come back.”


One of the Malacans-Leontius thought he was Marcus Dulcritius-stepped forward, swiveling to face the crowd.


“I think Leontius has spoken for all of us.”


He then turned to Caesarius.


“If you find the Baleares so attractive that you prefer them to Malaca, then I suggest that you stay there. I believe that there is a Frankish trader in the harbor.”


Caesarius scanned the crowd, searching for any sign of favour. After a few seconds, he turned and slowly, deliberately walked towards the entrance. He glared over his shoulder at the Malacans. Leontius grinned as he watched him leave.

 

[Eparkhos]

22 July 609

~0900




Iustinianus hesitantly pushed open the door of the castellum. He was fairly certain that this was where Phillippus had told him to go, as this was the only fort within the walls, but the doors of Malaca’s military center should have had at least two guards manning it. He stepped inside and called out “Leontius?”


There was an answering grunt from somewhere within the building, so he shut the door behind him and walked towards it. The hallway was lined with doors and he pushed each one open as he passed. The eleventh opened to the kentarches hunched over a desk, scribbling away at an unfurled scroll. He looked up as Iustinianus entered.


“Ah, magister,” he said, pushing the scroll aside, “I’m glad you’re awake.”


Iustinianus nodded. “So am I. Phillippus said that I was kicked by a horse and was out for four days?”


“Something like that.”


“Now, uh, what did you want to see me about?”


Leontius set the scroll down beside the desk, then slid open a drawer and produced another scroll. “It occurred to me yesterday,” he said, unrolling it, “That I didn’t give you a overview of Spaniae last week.” He spread the scroll across the surface, pinning its corners down with writing tools and codexes.

He pointed to the purple blotches. “Those are us.”


Iustinianus frrowned. It had been almost a year since he had gotten a look at a halfway decent map off even part of the Empire, and the Roman retreat from West Africa meant that either the Roman government in Carthage was collapsing or that the Berber tribes were getting stronger. Hopefully, it was just an outdated map.


“When was this map made?” he asked, cutting off Leontius as he pointed at one of the blotches.


“What? Oh, I think it was…” he lifted up one of the edges and read the underside, “603.” He sighed. “I can imagine that it’s gotten worse since then.”


Damn. “Sorry to interrupt you, carry on.”


Leontius nodded, pointing to the middle blotch on the Iberian coast.

He pointed to the purple blotches. “Those are us.”


Iustinianus frrowned. It had been almost a year since he had gotten a look at a halfway decent map off even part of the Empire, and the Roman retreat from West Africa meant that either the Roman government in Carthage was collapsing or that the Berber tribes were getting stronger. Hopefully, it was just an outdated map.


“When was this map made?” he asked, cutting off Leontius as he pointed at one of the blotches.


“What? Oh, I think it was…” he lifted up one of the edges and read the underside, “603.” He sighed. “I can imagine that it’s gotten worse since then.”


Damn. “Sorry to interrupt you, carry on.”


Leontius nodded, pointing to the middle blotch on the Iberian coast.

“That’s Malaca and the surrounding countryside. The limits to our control are, for all intents and purposes, the hills. At the last survey, Christ-Mass of 608, we had more or less 350 men of fighting age.”


“Wait a minute, you told me that there were only a hundred and twenty-five soldiers!”


Leontius looked away, shifting in his seat. “Officially, there are only 125 soldiers. The others are militia.”


Iustinianus hissed through his teeth. It irritated him severely that the kentarches had lied by omission when he first came to the city. But then again, it was wise to be suspicious of strange men. He mentally dropped the point.


“Malaca is the theoretical capital of Spaniae, but the real power center is Septem.” Leontius pointed to the patch on the African coast.

“There are two major noble families in the province, the Comentiolii and the Delii.”

Iustinianus blinked. “Delii? As in Aulus-”


“Aulus Delius, the boy who you got killed by the Goths a few days ago? Yeah, I’d recommend playing to the Comentiolii. Anyway, there are 250 regulars and maybe 700 militia between Septem and Tingis.”


Well, at least there’s that.


“And then there’s Asidona and Carteia.”

“Carteia has maybe a dozen families within its walls, barely enough to hold it against any assaults. We don’t know what’s going on in Asidona, there hasn’t been a messenger from the city in two years.


“Well.”


“Aye. I know-knew, maybe, the garrison commander.” he sighed. “Poor Licinianus. Odds are that his head’s on a pike in Toledo.”


Leontius paused for a moment, staring off into the distance. He shook his head after a few seconds, snapping out of it.


“The situation’s fairly similar in Sparteriosis. We’ll get an occasional ship from Marcus Comentiolus, the governor, telling us that the Goths are raiding closer to the walls. In May, they tried to cross the bay into the harbor before being driven off. There are no-where near enough men to transfer any.”

“And finally, there are the Baleares.”

“They’re the only part of the province that aren’t raided, and their population is somewhere around 8,000, of which probably 1,500 are men of fighting age. They’re the only reserves we have.”


Leontius paused. “Anything else you want to know?”


“Yes,” Iustinianus said, leaning forward, “How many ships do we have?”


“Somewhere around a dozen, I think.”


He grinned. A plan was starting to form in his mind...

 

[Eparkhos]

29 July 609


~2200




Dulcitius froze as the blade of his spatha plunged into the ocean with a loud splash, leaving him holding a broken hilt and tang. He frantically gestured for the men behind him to stop rowing, to stow up their oars, then stared intensely at the small prick of fire lying on the shore. The other rowers quickly pulled out of the water and set their oars on the lip of the boat, setting the small craft into a spin. Dulcitius twisted slightly, trying to keep sight of the fire without making a splash. One of the rowers, thinking that they would drift off course if not righted, gently slid the end of his paddle into the water and lightly pushed them out of it. Dulcitius swiveled his head around, shot him a death glare, then looked forward again. The light remained still, no visible shadows changing around it, and after a few long, burning minutes he gestured for the others to resume rowing.


They slid up onto the bank, stowing their paddles as the lembus drifted to a stop on the dense sands. The nose held up what looked to be a safe jump a flat rock, and so he stood, dropped a solid wooden block overboard to anchor them and prepared to make the leap. He snatched up a Vascon-pick[1] from the boat and spang over to the rock, landing as quietly as possible. He eased forward and dropped to the sand with a light thud, then gestured for the man behind them to do the same. One by one, the eight men on the boat crossed onto the beach, each with a sword in hand. As the eighth landed, there was a sharp crack from further inland, amongst a cluster of rocks. They froze, then Dulcitius gestured for one of the other men, Marcus, to circle around the boulders to the left, while he crept around to the right, Vascon-pick raised.


He came around to the mouth of the cluster before the other man did and he paused, waiting for his comrade to join him. After a few seconds, a tall, dark figure strode out from the rocks, passing him seemingly without notice. He hesitated for a few seconds, but after catching sight of a metal eagle attached to his wrist he sprang forward and sunk the blade of the pick into the man’s neck. The Goth went down like a sack of rocks, the pick still buried in his neck. He was fairly sure that he was dead, but he drove the pick into the man’s skull before leaping over the body and stumbling face first into the other soldier. Marcus started to swing, but Dulcitius grabbed his arm and gestured back to the corpse. He stopped.


“Probably sentry.” Dulcitius whispered.


Marcus nodded, and they turned and slipped back around the rocks to the group. Five of them were milling about on the beach, thankfully almost silent, and one was perched on a tree branch in a near-by copse, looking towards the fire. Dulcitius gestured him down, explained the killing of a probable sentry to the group and then outlined a plan. They nodded, then moved quickly and quietly up the slope towards the fire.


The Goths were camped under linen tents, arranged in a small square beside the fire. No-one appeared to be up, so they slid around the edge of the camp. They moved slowly, trying to remain silent, but within a few minutes they were lined up within the narrow columns, two to the tent. Dulcitius scanned the campsite, making eye contact with each man. After eight nods, he raised his pick and shouted.


“Nunc!” [2]


With that, the Romans began hacking into the tents, swinging and plunging into the men sleeping within them. The luckless Goths screamed, many trying to bolt from their sleeping places. The linen triangles seemed to roil and shake as red seeped across them. And the screams, the screams were intense and terrifying, so much so that Dulcitius had to push thoughts of reciprocity from his mind. A few moments after the screams died away, he gestured to his men to return to the boat and they did so, slipping back down to the canoe and then back out to sea, then the four miles west to Malaca.




30 July 609


~0645




Leontius was woken by someone pounding at the door to his office. He stumbled from his bed and staggered over to the door, throwing it open with an exhausted “WHAT?!”


Gordianus, the magister’s messenger boy, was bouncing around in the doorframe like an overexcited puppy. He shrunk back a bit after Leontius’ yell, but quickly stammered out his message.


“S-Seven successful att-attacks last night, sir. O-one was turned away with light casualties.”


Leontius grunted. That was better than he had hoped for, once again Iustinianus had been right. No doubt this would raise the city people’s opinion of him, and maybe they would give him more power. Maybe, if Leontius was very lucky, he might take enough power for him to go into semi-retirement.


Of course, he sighed, it was Spaniae. God wouldn’t let anyone in Spaniae get lucky.




[1] Whaling axe, resembles a Hakapik
[2] Latin for "Now!"

 

[Eparkhos]

Sorry about the delay, I kept on meaning to write this but kept getting distracted. This may or may not be historical OTL, I wasn't able to find many sources and so I had to fill in the gaps with my imagination and hunches.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Regnum Visigothorum and its Duchies, 609 AD (Probably)


The defining issue of the early 7th Century in Iberia was, as it often is, religion. In 587, King Reccared had renounced Arian Christianity and converted to Chalcedonian Orthodoxy. There had been an immediate backlash; Sunna, Arian Bishop of Emerita Augusta, Vagrila, Duc of Baetica, the Lusitanian nobleman Witteric and an Arian demagogue named Segga all rose against the king. They were swiftly crushed, Duc Claudio of Lusitania and Masona of Emerita Augusta putting down the rising before the year was out. Sunna was exiled to Francia, Segga had his hands cut off and exiled alongside Sunna. Vagrila threw himself at Masona's mercy while the rebellion was still being fought, and as such was spared with a significant loss of power and prestige. Witteric fled the country, returning after Reccared's death.

Reccared spent the rest of his reign prosletyzing amongst the predominantly Arian minor nobility. He had some success, and by the time he died in his sleep in 601 roughly two-fifths of the peninsula's populace were Catholic, two-fifths to half were Arian and a small remainder of less than 5% were either Gnostic Christians, primarily in the south, or followers of a pre-Roman pantheon in Vasconia and the far-northwest of Lusitania.

Possibly as a Reccared's son, Liuva II, however, was much more inclined to theology than statecraft. In 602, less than four months before Maurikios was hacked to death by Phokas, he made the ultimately fatal flaw of entrusting the newly-unexiled Witteric with an army of 2,000 to complete the expulsion of the Romans from Iberia. However, upon reaching the border of Vagrila's territory, the two old conspirators turned and marched on Toledo, declaring a restoration of the old Arian Church. Liuva attempted to flee but was captured before leaving the city, had his hands cut off and exiled to Hispalis, where Vagrila could keep a safe eye on him. Witteric was crowned shortly after, assuming control over the crown-lands.

Claudio, now dubbed 'the Old' met with Favilo and Euric, Duc of Tarraconensis, at Emerita Augusta in early 603. Neither Favilo nor Euric was willing to risk their thrones in a rising against Witteric and Claudio was not strong enough to face Vagrila and the king alone, leaving him frustratedly impotent. However, word of this meeting reached Witteric and he ordered Liuva strangled that spring. This caused some protest from the Chalcedonian duces, but little beyond that.

The next major change in Iberian politics occurred in 606. Witteric arranged for his only daughter, Ermenberga, to marry Theodoric II of Aquitaine to cement an alliance. However, Theodoric took her dowry (in both senses of the term) and then exiled her back to Iberia, decrying her as "a heretical whore." This enraged Witteric and his supporters, and over the course of the next year he concluded a quadrupal alliance with Neustria and Lombardy, as well as Theodoric's archival Theudebert II of Austrasia. In 608, Theudebert invaded Alsace, bringing his allies into conflict with Aquitaine. Witteric gathered an army of 4,000 and crossed the Pyrenees, cajoling Euric, Favilo and Gundemar, Duc of Septamania to join him, thus bringing the strength of the Iberian contingent to 6,000.

Vagrila was ordered to stay behind to keep Claudio from getting ideas. Witteric knew that Claudio would refuse to join him and did not wish to cause a civil war while simultaneously warring with the Franks. He also mandated Vagrila to not attack unless Claudio attacked first, as Vagrila would almost certainly be out-generated by the wily old Duc. It would also be impossible to surprise the Lusitanians, as Claudio had kept his militia at partial readiness since 602 and his retainers were already positioned along the border, making any assault suicidal. However, Claudio was also unwilling to strike first as an attack on Vagrila would vex Witteric enough to cause him to return to the peninsula, and likely do so before he could completely destroy the other Duc and take Toledo.

However, this was changed after several of Vagrila's retainers defected after his humiliating loss to the Romans under Iustinianus...



​

 

[Eparkhos]

17 August 609
Outside Malaca
1930



The walls of Malaca came into view as he crested the hill, the normally grey arches and buildings turned hues of yellow-orange by the setting sun. Iustinianus slowed to a stop, staring at the city below. From up here it seemed so small, so...fragile. How the hell could a single large city-let alone one as small as Malaca-fight off an entire kingdom by itself, again let alone one that ruled the rest of Iberia. The Tingitanian ports were either hostile or so depopulated to be useful, and there was no contact with Asidona or Sparteriosis. They were so very, very screwed. His mind turned to what exactly would happen to him if the Visigoths returned before he could come up with and execute his plan. Athalricization...It still wasn’t too late to cut and run. He could go out on a patrol in the early morning, then slip west and south into Berber Tingitania...

“Magister, is something wrong?”

He shook himself out of his sopor, tilting his head back over his shoulder. Dulcitius and the two score of other fledgling cavalrymen that had participated in the day’s exercise were crowded in loose formation on the lower slope. They were all tense, many clutching spears in ways so wrong that it would’ve been funny if it happened to anyone else.

“No, I’m just….thinking.”

One of the riders in the second line grinned, rising in his ansulae. “Well then, we’ll have them running back to the Baetis by Natalias, sir!” The atmosphere immediately lightened, and several of the men chuckled.

Iustinianus forced a smile. He couldn’t abandon them like that. They-the whole city, even-had placed their hopes in him, trusted him to deliver them from the Visigoths. Besides, he’d spent seven years crossing the length of the Mediterranean to get here, and it just wouldn’t be right to leave again while he was winning. The smile became genuine.

“Pre-charge formation! Let’s give the women a show!”

They formed into a rough triangle, Iustinianus in the lead. Spears were held at an acute angle, low enough to quickly couch them but still high enough to not impale the man before them. The men on the leading edge had scuta strapped to their outside arm, offering a small amount of protection from arrows. He scanned the formation once, then ordered advance.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

18 August 609
Malaca
0030



Iustinianus squinted, trying to make out the small characters tightly packed together on the small piece of parchment in the low light. Due to, as always, a lack of resources, he’d been using poorly-made local candles for working at night, the sputtering remnants of which were currently sitting in a small holder on the edge of his desk. Said poorly-made candles were indeed poorly-made and barely cast enough light to see by. This wasn’t helped by his instruction to write reports as small as possible to save parchment, which was currently not helping.

He was able to puzzle out that Lucius Orcivius the Elder, grandfather of the slower Lucius, wished to know what the tax rate would be for garum production as he was planning to re-open an abandoned manufactory on the river. He thought back to his brief stint in Palestine, trying to remember what the tax rate was for garum there. What was it….15% for regular and 35% for Kosher? Yeah, that was probably it. He scribbled those down on the back of the sheet, then set it down in the growing pile beside his chair.

There was a knock at the door, followed by a fit of coughing.

“Enter.” he sighed, surprising himself with how exhausted he sounded.

A pair of miles shuffled through the door, between them a thin and well-groomed man dressed in a priest’s habit. He was carrying a pair of scrolls under his arms, and although his face was tense and shielded, his eyes were constantly in motion, flicking between the guards, the room and Iustinianus. Leontius stumbled after them, doubled over in a coughing fit.

The old soldier wheezed a “Salve,”, then un-folded himself and gestured limply to the priest. “Embassy from (cough) Vagrila, (cough) sir.” He doubled back over in another fit, shaking. Poor #######.

He looked back to the priest, who along with his guards was leaning as far away from the kentarches as he could.

“What does Vagrila have to say to me?” he said.

The other man turned from Leontius to Iustinianus, eyes still darting around the room. The way he surveyed everything in view and assessed it seemingly without giving away any of his feelings was making Iustinianus quite uncomfortable.

“Duc Vagrila….wishes….” he said, a long pause between each word. In most people, it would have been a sign of mental weakness, but given his previous behavior it was apparent that he was carefully choosing each word. “To….know….your feelings….on….submission as a….vassal.”

Iustinianus had to stifle a laugh. Submission to Vagrila? If the Visigoths didn’t immediately turn on them, the Emperor in Konstantinoupoli, whoever it was, would send a fleet to burn Malaca to the ground if only out of spite. Of course, that assumed that the Malacans wouldn’t immediately lynch him the second he bent the knee.

“I am afraid I must say no.” he responded, more diplomatically than he would like to, “Is there anything else your master wishes to discuss?”

“I….believe you are making….a possibly fatal mistake.” the priest said, eyes boring into him. Iustinianus shifted in his seat.

“And why is that?” he responded.

“Because….you are….cut from….reinforcements.” he unrolled both of the scrolls on the table, dramatically sweeping his arm over them. Iustinianus leaned forward, scanning them. He blanched.

“No, this….these have to be faked,” he breathed. The other Romans leaned in, trying to get a look at the papers. He flipped them over, furiously shaking his head.

Something resembling a smirk passed onto the priest’s face. “If….I were….to fake a document such as that….I….any sane person, really….wouldn’t be that….extravagant. You….wouldn’t believe it.”

Iustinianus froze, staring down at the desk with his hands held to his forehead. This….no, Phocas was incompetent but not that incompetent, surely! But then again, it really was too extreme for anyone to reasonably fake. But it had to be fake, surely this couldn’t happen. All the things that would have to fall into place for it to occur.

Leontius broke into another coughing fit, snapping him back. He stared at the priest, a feeling of calm passing over him.

“Leave. I will not throw myself at Vagrila’s feet, not now, not ever.”

The priest turned and walked out, his escort chasing after him after a few seconds. Leontius and Iustinianus watched him recede down the hall into the thick shadows. Iustinianus shook his head, then silently dipped the corners of both scrolls into the flickering candle.

“What was that?” Leontius asked. The magister merely stood and quietly walked out.

The older man snatched what little was left of the second paper out of the candle and quickly beat out the flame. His tired eyes focused in on what little was left of legible text.

‘PERSIANS AT ANKYRA’

 

[Eparkhos]

17 August 609
1230
1 Mile NW of Samosata, Sassanid Empire



Farrukhan Mehrani stood rigid and outwardly calm, staring intently across the bridge of boats spanning the Euphrates. More specifically, he was glaring daggers at the large Indian elephant that was currently shuffling towards the far bank of the river, carrying on its back a gilded and bejewelled howdah, the Derafsh e Kaviani[1] flying from its pinnacle. Behind it was a column of the Zhayedan[2], which he estimated numbered about 250, who were in turn followed by what could only be the full strength of the Gond-i Shahanshah, the Shahanshah’s personal army. Riding at a good distance before the elephant was a small group of Gyan-Avspar[3], who carried the personal standard of Aspad Gushnasp. Great, he’d have to deal with both Khosrau and “I-eat-so-much-sh*t-my-mouth-is-brown” Gushnap.

Ahura Mazda, he was going to need a drink.

He walked back to the van, grabbed the first bottle of wine he found (a cheap Meleti apricot that would probably taste like piss) then returned to the left bank. The long column was still on the far side, the Zhayedan apparently having drifted too far up and panicked the great pachyderm. The latter was now laying on its side, a good portion of its flank stained red and the Derafsh having been dismounted and hung on a lance. It was now making its way, the emperor no doubt following, onwards to the bridge. He popped the cork and started drinking.

Fifteen minutes later, the bottle was half-empty and the Shahanshah’s party had just reached the bridge. Farrukhan doffed his helmet and set it on the ground, rolling the bottle beneath it. As the thunder of hooves on the wide planks began to rattle in his ears, he dropped to one knee in a deferential gesture.

“Shahrbaraz.” Khosrau’s voice was icy, giving him a chill that he hadn’t felt since he’d fallen into Dasht-e Nawar in winter as a child. It was never good to anger a man with so much power to such an extent.

He slowly lifted his head, trying not to anger him anymore than he already was. Khosrau sat astride his horse a few feet away, beside him Gushnap. The Gyan-Avspar were arrayed in a circle around him, lances lowered to head-level. “My Shahanshah,” he breathed, watching every word he spoke.

The following seconds crawled by like a crippled ant trying to cross a puddle of dried beer that had hardened over a lake of bitumen. Mehrani was frozen in place, fully aware that twitching at the wrong instant would get him spitted.

“Tell me, Shahrbaraz, are you familiar with the names of Roman provinces?” the Shahanshah said, drawing out every word to seemingly intimidate Mehrani. The general froze, mind racing through his options. If he said ‘no’, he’d be executed on the spot of dereliction of duty. So, he had to say ‘yes’. It was an obvious lead-in to a dressing down or worse, but he could hardly say anything else.

“My Shahanshah, it is part of my duty to know that, and as I dare not to be derelict in my duty I am familiar with them.” he said, all in a single breath.

“Then you should know that we are in Euphratensis,” Khosrau said, anger beginning to creep into his voice, “Which is to the west of Osroene. And I gave you very clear instructions that you were not to advance beyond Osroene while any cities within it remained within Roman hands. And yet Edessa still stands!” he roared the last part, lunging halfway out of the saddle and sending spittle flying into Mehrani’s face.

“My Shahanshah, I was pursuing a fleeing Roman army. If I had remained at Edessa they would have escaped and linked up with the Army of Satrapiae and then they would’ve been too large to fight-”

“DO NOT GIVE ME EMPTY EXCUSES!” Khosrau shouted, veins bulging out of his head. Farrukhan was so dead. He began repeating every bit of the Avesta he knew inside his mind, shaking. Gushnap smirked, rising in his saddle and raising his sword to give the signal to finish Mehrani.

“Do not presume to be my equal, Aspad.”

Mehrani and Gushnap both slowly turned to face Khosrau. The aging man’s voice had gone from furious to terrifyingly placid in a few seconds. He glared at the hazarbed, who slowly wilted under his gaze. The Shahanshah then turned to Mehrani.

“Consider yourself lucky. I will not execute for your treason.” he sneered. “But you will be stripped of your titles. I think I’ll replace you with Pirouz Zikani[4], and your lands will be given to the Zikan. You are no longer Shahrbaraz.” he leaned forward in the saddle, smiling dementedly. “I think….exile is appropriate. Someplace where your talents can still be used to benefit the throne.”
Mehrani was frozen, not daring to breath. He wasn’t going to be executed. Thank Ahura Mazda, he wasn’t going to be executed! Reassignment to almost anywhere would be better than being dead! That was, unless, Khosrau sent him to-

The Shahanshah’s smile widened. “I hope you enjoy Yaman, shahrab.”

[1] Imperial standard of Sasanian Persia
[2] Sasanian Immortals
[3] Most elite Persian cavalry group
[4] Kardarigan

 

[Eparkhos]

19 August 609
Malaca
0615



“Leontius!”

Iustinianus rapped on the kentarches’ door again, jumping eagerly from foot to foot as he waited for the old soldier to answer it. He’d found a way out of all of this, or at least he thought he had, and wanted to run it by the garrison commander before he acted on it. It was so brilliant and complex that he wasn’t able to write it all down, and so he was eager to talk before he forgot any part of it. He knocked again, louder this time.

The door flew open, revealing a bedraggled and exhausted Leontius, dressed only in underclothes.

“WHAT?!” he roared, sending Iustinianus half a foot into the air. He then doubled over in a coughing fit, only recovering after several solid minutes of hacking. Iustinianus lightly patted him on the shoulder.

“You alright?” he said, trying to fill the uncomfortable half-silence. Leontius nodded briskly, standing back up.

“I’m fine.” he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Are you?”

“What do– Oh.” Iustinainus became acutely aware that he had slept at best two hours in the last two days and probably looked and smelled like he’d come crawling out of the deepest cave in the Solarums. He took a few steps back to give Leontius some breathing space. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Right then,” Leontius said, “What the hell was so important that it couldn’t wait until after the crack of dawn?”

Iustinianus jumped back into his state of manic excitement. “I’ve figured out how we can beat Vagrila!”

Leontius was remarkably unresponsive, merely leaning back against the doorframe. “Do tell.” he said dryly.

Iustinianus frowned. “I thought you’d be more….”

“Enthusiastic? If I had a follis for every miles that’d ever come up with a brilliant plan to beat the Visigoths I could buy every farm in Aegyptus. Out with it, now.”

Iustinainus shifted his weight. “Well, uh, we make use of the new cavalry legion to strike deep into his lands.” As he spoke the eagerness crept back into his voice, “More specifically, we target the homes of the Visigothic land owners. We either kill or cripple all the men, which’ll eat away at Vagrila as they’re the only people who actually support him. He’ll have to either watch his taxes and levies dry up or come out after us. Since we use the ansulae we’ll be able to outrun and outmaneuver any pursuers, and eventually his impotency will either spark a rebellion or force Witteric to remove him from power, in which case the power shift will alienate the other duces even more. Hopefully, that’ll cause a full-blown civil war.”

Leontius nodded. “Nice plan. One problem, though.”

Iustinianus cocked his head. “What?”

“If Vagrila has more than three atomoi in his heart[1], he’ll envelop Malaca after you burn a dozen or so villas.”

Iustinianus waved it off. “With all the new men, we’ll be able to hold the city easily.”

Leontius stared at him, blinking. “What?”

“I said that with the new men in the garrison we’ll be able to—”

“Stop. Just stop. Think about it for a second.” Leontius said, holding the bridge of his nose.

“With the new soldiers available to us, we will be able to hold off any Visigothic…” he trailed off as Leontius groaned loudly. He dropped his hand to his side, staring at Iustinianus with a look of equal parts annoyance and exhaustion.

“There are one-hundred and thirty-six men of fighting age in Malaca.” he said slowly, as one would speak to a small child or dog, “Got that?”

“Yes, I’ve got that,” Iustinianus bristled, “Which will be more than—”

“How many men are in the cavalry legion?” Leontius growled.

“Fifty-two, but I—. Oh.”

Leontius nodded. “And eighty-four men won’t be able to hold the city against a determined assault by a force ten times their size.”

“I…see.”

There was a moment of awkward silence before Leontius excused himself to get dressed. He returned a few minutes later, saying “It’s not a bad plan, we just need more men to carry it out without dying.”

Iustinianus turned and started to pace up and down the narrow street, hands clasped behind his back.

“The Baleares are threatened by nothing more dangerous than some pirates, so they’re the obvious source to draw from. The biggest problem will be getting enough boats to transfer them to the mainland.”

“That, and they’re in Caesarius’ back pocket.” Leontius interjected.

Iustinianus cocked his head, pausing and turning to face him with a quizzical expression. “Who’s Caesarius?”

Leontius frowned. “No one’s told you?” The magister shook his head. “Well, he’s your stereotypical Italian patrician with his head so far up his own ass that he’s lost his ability to smell. Even better, he’s dumb as a rock and only in power because he’s the Heraclii’s stooge.” He laughed. “Moron tried to get the Visigoths to recognize him as “Imperator of Iberia”. Honestly, I don’t know how he’s not dead yet.”

“And he’s not friendly?”

“Oh, that....Phocas appointed him as magister last year. Granted, he’s not popular here or in Tingitania but if he can convince enough Balearans that your paperwork is fake he would have the power and authority to string us both up without being lynched.”

Iustinianus stared at him. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?”

Leontius shrugged. “Thought you knew.”

Iustinianus shook his head and went back to pacing. “So, the Baleares are out and we’ll have to do something about Caesarius, sooner rather than later. That leaves the Tingitanian ports. Septem’s isolated enough we can transfer all but a skeleton garrison, and we can probably take some from Tingis without weakening it too badly.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself again.”

Iustinianus sighed. “Right, the Delii. How the hell are we going to take care of them without starting a civil war?”

“Well, I don’t think that we can leave them in place. You did get Marcus the Elder’s favorite child turned into a porcupine.”

Great, Delius was the paterfamilias’ favorite child. He already felt like shit for getting him killed, the dire political consequences weren’t necessary, God.

“Alright then, so we’ll have to get them out of power more-or-less nonviolently. And we’ll have to do it in a way that doesn’t piss off the locals.”

“That latter part shouldn’t be too hard. As far as I’m aware, Marcus hasn’t been that well-liked since he started confiscating non-Chalcedonian property back in ’05.”

Iustinianus stopped. “There are that many Old Believers?”[2]

“No. Tingis is a trade city, so the confiscations scared away a lot of Visigothic, Vandalic and Berber traders.”

“So, if we can dethrone Marcus and reverse that, the populace will turn for us, or at least whoever we replace them with?”

“Probably.”

Iustinianus nodded. “That’ll probably be amplified if we can find someone who’s popular with them already. Granted, they’ll have to be pretty thick to buy the ‘Appointed-by-Tiberius’ line or a Maurician diehard who somehow survived the purges and is willing to keep his mouth shut.” he laughed hollowly. “Like that’s possible.”

Leontius fell silent, brow furrowed and staring out into space. Iustinianus watched him curiously for a few seconds before breaking the silence. “Leontius? You’re not having a stroke or anything, are you?”

“No,” Leontius said, breaking out of his trance and turning to face the magister, “I was thinking.”

“About what?”

“Let me finish!” he growled. After a beat, he continued. “About an old exarch I served under in the 80s and 90s. Drove the Berbers across the Sala[3] in two seasons of campaigning and they didn’t come back until, what was it, ’04? Yeah, I think it was ’04. Anyway, he was made exarch and consul both by Mauricius, and was one of the few men in Africa who didn’t hate him. Last I heard, he was chased into the Atlases by a mob of Donatists in ’98.

“If he’s still alive, he’s probably our best bet. But it’s entirely possible he’s long dead, he was in his fifties when he left, and a decade in the mountains isn’t wonderful for one’s health.”

Iustinianus was grinning. “Seven years in the Germanic states isn’t great for one’s health either, but here I am.” He paused. “What was his name?”

“Gennadius[4], if I remember correctly. But don’t get your hopes up. Even if he’s still alive, we’ll have to track him down, and that involves getting someone who won’t be immediately imprisoned as a spy by the Delii but still knows enough about both spycraft and Tingitania to not die, in a port large enough to have semi-functioning roads going south.”

Iustinianus paused, mulling it over. After a few minutes, a smile crept over his face. “I believe I may know just such a man.”

He darted down the street, leaving Leontius standing alone on the stoop. The old kentarches shrugged and walked off towards his post, ready for another dull day.

To the east, the sun crested the horizon, beginning a new day.

--------------–

[1] The period equivalent of "Three brain cells"
[2] Pagan holdouts
[3] Bou Regreg River
[4] All this is OTL. Look him up

 

[Eparkhos]

20 August 609
1000
Tingis



Quintus Orcivius pushed through the crowd that thronged the northern entrance to the market, ducking between a pair of Frankish traders on one side and a Berber sell-sword on the other. The press of bodies was somewhat reassuring, comforting even, a feeling that his five years in exile were over. It felt good to be home.

He sighed. Of course, it wasn’t permanent. As soon as he found this Gennadius person he’d have to go back to Spania and near-certain death. Iustinianus’ song-and-dance might be able to convince others that victory was assured, but he knew. Vagrila’s abatement was a fluke, and Malaca would be reduced to smoking rubble before the year’s end.

“Quintus Orcivius,” an all-too familiar voice drawled in a thick Vandalic accent, “What the hell are you thinkin, comin’ back here?”

His heart skipped a beat and he whirled around, frantically scrambling for the dagger that was cinched at his belt. His hand touched the pommel at the same instant he felt the familiar press of the side of a sword on his side.

“The hell part of ‘Never come back’ didn’t go through?” the voice asked.

Orcivius swallowed. His only hope of getting out of this without being spitted was to talk his way out before more comestabuli showed up.

“Godigisel….” he started, voice trailing off as the pressure on his flank became heavier. He took a deep breath than continued, words running on as he tried to get out as much as possible,.“I’mhereonordersfromthemagisterofSpaniaandunlessyouwanttowindupdancingonairabovetheseawallsyoushouldletmegonow.”

The Vandal chuffed in what he could only assume was the man’s version of a laugh. “Magister of Spania, my ass. Who’d you get the assignment from? One of Caesarius’ secretaries?”

He lightly shook his head. “No. Flavius Iustinianus….” Damn. Had he ever heard Iustinianus’ last name? Shit, he had to make something up. “....Sabbatius. Yeah, Flavius Iustinianus Sabbatius. Appointed by the Emperor a few months back.”

“Oh yeah? Which emperor?”

“Tiberios III.” It was at that moment that Orcivius realized that Tiberios was the name of Maurice’s western kaisar, one who had been dead for at least six years. Shit. God willing, Godigisel was so far out of the loop he didn’t know that.

“Tiberios….No, the emperor is Phocas.” Godigisel said, a slight tone of uncertainty creeping into his voice. Thank you, Iesus.

“Phocas got overthrown last year.” Orcivius said, struggling to keep his voice even.

“I….”

He twisted his head around to face Godigisel directly. “Look, if you don’t believe me, check my left cloak pocket. I have the papers in there.”

The pressure on his side slightly abated as the other man slowly reached forward and tugged his outer layer up, feeling for a lump in the bottom corner. He felt his way to the opening and pulled the wad of parchment out, pressing them against Orcivius’ back in an attempt to smooth them out.

What followed were the most tense moments of Orcivius’ life as he stood as frozen as a statue, Godigisel standing a few strides behind with the sword still pressing into his back as the Vandal puzzled over the papers.

Finally, after a seeming eternity Godigisel muttered something about damn scribes and shoved the papers back into his pocket. “We’re goin’ to the citadel so they can sort this shit out,” he growled, shoving Orcivius in the back. The pressure vanished, but he was quite sure bolting would be suicidal and so meekly shuffled a pace ahead of his captor all the way to the fortress.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

‘Escorting’ a supposed envoy from the Magister of Spania turned out to be a good way to gain a quick audience with the Comes of Tingitania. Less than fifteen minutes after first encountering Godigisel, the former and Orcivius found themselves standing outside the door to Delius’ office. One of the five guards escorting them, a large Germanic man whom Orcivius put as Suebi, pounded on the door.

“Reason?” barked a harsh voice from within.

“Man claiming to be escorting an envoy from the Magister of Spania, sir.” the guard said in a low and rumbling voice.

“Enter!” the man within responded.

He swung the door open and Orcivius and Godigisel were thrust through, two guards following. The inside was spartanly furnished, bearing only a bench on the right wall and a desk. Rising from behind the latter object was a thin, almost skeletal old man whose head seemed almost too large for his body. He was a head taller than either of them, and all four of the men shrank back some.

“Which one of you is the so-called messenger?” he asked curtly. Orcivius trepidatiously raised his hand, afraid that any misstep would get him killed.

“Good. You two,” he pointed to the guard, “Escort the other one out.”

The two men grabbed Godigisel by the both arms and started to drag him out. This snapped him out of his seeming daze and he howled, “Bounty! There’s a bounty on him!”

The old man gestured for the guards to stop, then scrutinized both of the men for a long minute. His head snapped around to Orcivius. “That true?”

He nodded. “Outstanding reward from a few years back, sir.”

Delius nodded, then looked back to the guards. “Give him two folli, then eject him.” The guards continued dragging him out, one stopping and shuffling to the side of the door as they passed by. Orcivius began flicking his eyes back and forth between the two, searching for any sign of the guard drawing the sword that was tied around his waist.

“Your message….I assume the new magister is not so novice as to not send a written copy?” Delius asked, speaking in a sudden and rapid-fire tone. Orcivius jumped, scrambling to find the words for a response.

“What? Oh no, I, uh, I-”
Delius cut him off. “Give it to me.”

Orcivius grabbed at his pocket, nearly tearing the seams off as he tried to get the parchment out as fast as he could. He found it and quickly stuck it out over the desk. Delius snatched it away no more than a second after his hand stopped moving. The old man unrolled the mess and smoothed it out on the desk, bending over the furniture to do so. His tunic slid down the back of his neck, revealing a long and nasty-looking scar running along his left dorsal side and disappearing into both the cloth and his hair. That had to have been painful.

His stare was broken by Delius suddenly snapping up, eyes seeming to blaze with emotion, and sliding the parchment into a sub-section of the desk. He turned to face the guard.

“Batyradz, if any word of this gets out I’ll be coming after you.” he hissed. The guard nodded, sliding sideways on the wall in a gesture of deference. Delius tslid back into his seat, then turned to face Orcivius.

“What’s your name?” Delius asked.

“Quintus Orcivius, sir.”

“What do you know of the contents of this letter?” he asked, his voice terrifyingly placid.

“N-Nothing, sir.” Orcivius stammered, “I’ve only been told to carry it to-” he clamped his mouth shut, realizing he’d said too much.

Delius leaned forward over the desk. “Oh, do tell.”

Orcivius weakly shook his head, frantically looking between Delius, the papers and Batyradz. Delius nodded to the giant man.

“You’re going to tell me, the only changeable factor is how much pain you’ll be in.” His voice was menacing, the sort of voice that was rarely heard outside of childhood night terrors. His face slowly darkened as seconds passed without a response. Orcivius felt a cold sweat bead on his brow. He looked back at the guard, who was slowly rising from the bench.

“Fine!” he spat, “It’s Gennadius! The message was for Gennadius!”

Delius’ face turned thoughtful and he leaned back in his seat. He turned the name over in his mouth a few times, staring off into space. His hand went to his face, massaging his chin as he thought. After a few minutes he looked up and over to the guard.

“Remind me to have that old bastard killed.” he said, then went back to his musings. After a few minutes, he stood and began to pace back and forth along the back wall, occasionally stopping and staring out of a small, circular window. Every few minutes he would shake his head and mutter something about Maurice. After almost an hour, he stopped and sat down again.

“Now, man, I assume you’d prefer to remain alive?”

Orcivius frantically nodded.

“Good. How attached are you to the current magister?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Good.”

Delius leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“Now here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to stay here for the next two weeks, and then you’re going to return to Spania and tell him that you couldn’t find hide nor hair of Gennadius. And then you’re going to start writing me everything that he does. Got it?”

“Yes, sir!” Orcivius squeaked.

“Good,” Delius nodded, looking over at Batyradz, “Take him to Ocella and tell him to instruct him in the basics of spycraft and teach him Darai.”[1]

As the door closed behind the two men, Delius sat back in his chair. This was….amazing. He could hardly have asked for a better gift. If he was lucky, played his cards right and Orcivius didn’t mess things up catastrophically, it was entirely possible he would have unrivaled control of all of Spania by the end of the year.

--------------------

[1] Wolof. In this case, Delius is using it as a language for quiet communication due to how obscure it is north of the Sahara.

 

[Eparkhos]

21 August 609
1100
Malaca



Dulcitius braced his legs against the ansulae and pushed off of the saddle, shaking as he lost the leather’s support. He held himself up for a few seconds before gingerly returning himself to his horse’s back. He paused for a second, then looked to his left where Iustinianus was sitting astride a different horse a few feet across the practice field.

“Well,” he started, trying to figure out a diplomatic way to tell him how stupid this was, “It’s not very comfortable. Or stable. Quite frankly, I’m not sure that any of ‘em will be able to pick it up in a reasonable time.”

Iustinianus shook his head, raising and lowering himself several times. “It’s really not that hard.” he stopped and looked over at him with an eager expression. “They should be able to get it down soon enough, right?”

Dulcitius internally groaned. He’d known the magister for only a little over a month, but he already knew how difficult it was to change his mind after he’d made it up. It looked like he was stuck with this.

“Why do they need to know this? I really don’t see what the point is?” he asked, partially slumping in his saddle. If he was stuck with this harebrained concept, he deserved to at least know why.

“It’s not all that important by itself, it’s more about getting them familiarized with bracing in the ansulae.”

Dulcitius gazed at him with a confused look. “What?”

Iustinianus hunched over in the saddle, miming tucking a spear beneath his arm while he pushed his feet against the ansulae, staying firmly in the saddle. “Like this. If you hold the spear beneath your arm, against your body, it adds your body weight to the force of the thrust. We’ll be much more effective in both an out-and-out charge against formed infantry and pursuing enemy cavalry, and that edge might be enough to give us a win.”

Dulcitius shook his head. “That sounds great, but I don’t think it’ll be as much of a deciding factor as you say it is.”

Iustinianus glared at him before swinging out of his saddle and shoving the reigns into Dulcitius’ hands. “I’ll be right back.”

He watched him speed walk towards the run-down storage building at the far side of the field, into a doorway of which he disappeared after about a minute. He disinterestedly watched the building for a few minutes, idly wondering if he’d be off early enough to try some of the garum from the Orcivii’s new place.

After about five minutes, Iustinianus emerged from the building dragging behind him what appeared to be six large wooden poles and a medium-sized…fascine?[1] He leaned forward, squinting. Yeah, that had to be a fascine. He couldn’t tell whether it was stranger that Iustinainus was dragging them onto the field or that it hadn’t broken up from neglect.

About 250 yards down the field, Iustinianus stopped and roughly shoved four of the poles into the ground in a makeshift chandelier[2] before wedging the fascine between them. He then started back towards him, moving at a faster clip now that he carried a smaller burden. Target practice?

Dulcitius handed the reigns back to him as he reached the horses. Iustinianus paused, beat a film of dust out of his light red-brown hair and then mounted, keeping the rods in his left hand.. He turned to look at Dulcitius, the anger in his gaze much reduced but still present.

“Alright,” he said, “If you don’t believe me, we’ll put it to a test.” He pointed to the fascine. “That has about the same properties as several layers hundafaths’ armor, layered. You,”

“Hold on,” Dulcitius interjected, “A what’s armor?”

Iustinianus cocked his head, giving him a puzzled look. “A hundafaths. Professional Gothic soldier, retainer, et cetera. You don’t know that?”

“No. Never really interacted with any of ‘em, outside of combat of course.” he paused. “Come to think of it, how do you know that?”

“I spent a year with some Goths in Swabia.” He suddenly stopped, as I’d he realized he’d said too much. He quickly waved it off. “Anyway, that’s not important. All that matters is that that,” he gestured back to the bundle, “Is the equivalent of the thickest armor we could realistically run into this side of Konstantinoupoli.”

He handed one of the poles to Dulcitius. “Make a run at it.”

The decurio studied him for a moment, then took the rod. This was rather…strange. The wood was blunt and pointless, so there was next to way that it could punch through the bundle. This had to be a set up of some sort.

He shook his head, spurring his horse into a canter down the field. It was the fastest he could safely go in combat, so it was as fast he would go in this. He raised the shaft above his head and angled it down towards the bundle, as was standard amongst both the Goths and Romans. As he bore down on it, he leaned out towards it and thrust downwards, striking it with a resounding clack. Unsurprisingly, it bounced off and he let go of it, letting it fall to the ground.

He turned and rode off to the side, reigning in a few yards off to the side to watch Iustinianus’ charge.

The magister came barreling down the course, pole tucked deftly into his armpit and feet braced against the ansulae. He was coming much closer to the fascine than Dulcitius had, staying straight on his mount rather than leaning.

With a loud snapping sound, the pole smashed into the fascine. It splintered, briefly vanishing behind the fast-moving horse and rider before they passed. What looked to be about half of the shaft lay buried within the fascine, the jagged stump jutting out of the bundle. Iustinainus turned and rode towards him, thrusting what looked to be roughly a third of the pole triumphantly into the air.

Dulcitius stared at the stick in the bundle, stunned. That much of a difference in impact between the positions was most definitely a major factor. If it had that much of an impact on armor, the force exerted on the poorly armored soldiers that made up the bulk of Gothic armies would be incredible. He looked over to Iustinianus, who had halted a few feet away and was currently inspecting the break in the stick.

“I’ll get them on it right away, sir.”

The magister looked up, grinning almost maniacally as he ran his hand over the broken end. “You do that, decurio.”

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[1] A fascine was a large bundle of sticks held together by cord.
[2] A chandelier was a formation of supports used to brace formations in siege works.