Heir of Aurelian

Marcellus gripped the hilt of his spatha with a bitter expression on his face. Currently, he was in the middle of a small agricultural town outside the borders of Italia. Because he had begun to march his army on such short notice from Raetia to Ravenna, Marcellus and his soldiers had lacked a proper logistical supply chain. To put it simply, he and his men had resorted to forcing local villages to give up their food stores.

Upon seeing such a large army demand tribute from the local villages, most were reluctant but willing to give into Marcellus’ demands. However, this village, for whatever reason, was defiant. This posed a difficult dilemma for the self-proclaimed emperor. Should he leave this village be? Or should he compel them to see reason?

The problem with the first option was that by allowing this village to defy his demands for food. He would invite future resistance from the other towns on his path to Ravenna. He could not allow such an example to exist, or his men would surely starve.

There was also another factor in Marcellus’ mind, one that was far more dire. Every second he was not marching was a second wasted. One where his mother was subjected to the torment of Honorius. With each passing minute, the probability of Aeliana’s death increased. It was this proverbial blade that hovered over Marcellus’ neck that caused him to act in such desperation.

Normally, he would wait until the spring before marching on campaign. The reason for this was twofold. It would allow him to store up grain from the harvest for the long march to Ravenna. However, more importantly, it would allow Marcellus the necessary time to negotiate with Alaric, preventing him from ravaging the Roman countryside during his absence from Raetia._.

Unfortunately, Honorius had forced his hand, and hence why Marcellus was in such a rough state. By now, Alaric must have crossed the border into Raetia and was most likely ransacking the land at this very moment, something that did not sit well for all the soldiers in Marcellus’ army. In anticipation of the Goth’s cruelty, Marcellus had long since ordered the evacuation of Raetia and into Italia.

The majority of the population, realizing that their protectors were marching on a campaign of rebellion, fled their homes and flooded the Province of Italia. How far they could go, and how long they could avoid the war, nobody knew. For the time being, though, they were spared the cruelty of the Goths. Yet, as with every evacuation, there were those who were adamant and stayed behind. For those who were stubborn and chose this path, only death awaited them.

None of this was Marcellus’ concern at the moment, and thus he held the hilt of his blade, struggling to maintain his calm. Negotiations were going south, but he dreaded the idea of using violence to obtain the supplies he so desperately needed.  The town’s mayor was arguing with Marcellus over his demands, practically spitting in his face as he did so.

“You have abandoned your post in Raetia, taken up arms against the Emperor, and raised an army in rebellion. Now you ask that us simple village folk support you, at the cost of our own winter stores. If we do as you ask, come winter, we will starve! What is with you soldiers, always rebelling against your emperor? Can’t you see us village folk want no part in it?”

Marcellus struggled to maintain his civility as he negotiated with the man. However, no matter what he said, the mayor would reject him. He was as stubborn as the people who stayed behind in Raetia. Ultimately, Marcellus was forced to use the threat of violence.

“If you do not listen to my demands, we will take your grain by force. I assure you if such a thing becomes necessary, we will not leave anything behind for you. I’m not asking for everything that your village has stored, just half…”

It was not just the town’s mayor who was standing on the opposing side, but an entire mob of villagers who grabbed whatever pointy object they could find to resist the rebel general who had entered their lands and demanded that they hand over their food.

These villagers were shouting and pushing at the Roman soldiers and the Gothic foederati. They had no respect for the men who had given up their homes, just so they could remove the false emperor Honorius, a man who had condemned Rome to a fate worse than death. Still, despite this, the Roman soldiers did not respond with violence, and remained calm.

The Foederati, on the other hand, were getting anxious. They were well accustomed to plundering villages for supplies. Because of this, they failed to see the reason that Marcellus would negotiate with these poor farmers. Upon seeing the state his men were in, Sarus approached Marcellus and whispered in his ear.

“I can’t hold back my men for much longer. The moment these villagers become violent, this will turn into a bloodbath. Give me the order to take the goods by force, or you will have a massacre on your hands.”

Marcellus knew things were getting tense. He gazed around at the agitated Gothic warriors, who were prepared to engage in violence, as well as the enraged villagers who were about to foolishly give up their lives. In one last attempt to settle things peacefully, Marcellus made the town mayor aware of the reality.

“Mayor, I can not hold back my Gothic friends here any longer. If you don’t give us what we ask for, this town will be slaughtered. I beg of you to yield the requested grain before things get out of hand!”

Despite Marcellus’ plea for peace, the mayor of the town merely spat on his shoes in disgust. He refused to yield his town’s food surplus to a bunch of rebels. Regardless as to whether or not Marcellus won the war, his village would not survive to see it. If they were to die anyway, they might as well resist until the very end.

Marcellus sighed as he was about to give the command to ransack the village. However, before he could do so, a young boy in the crowd of villagers threw a cow pie at Sarus, which landed on his face. Though Sarus merely wiped the dung from away with a look of displeasure, his warriors were enraged at the disrespect towards their chieftain and immediately stormed the gathered villagers with their weapons.

Before Marcellus or Sarus could even react, the villagers had spears and swords thrust into the bodies, claiming their lives in the process. The Gothic foederati had lost their minds and entered into a battle frenzy, cutting down anyone who was not a part of their army. Marcellus tried to stop the slaughter, but it was too late. Thirty thousand men were in a state of frenzy as they raided the village for all of its value.

“Stop! Cease your actions this instant!”

Yet the cries of the villagers drowned Marcellus’ voice out as the Gothic Foederati butchered them like cattle. The violence that had suddenly erupted utterly dumbfounded the Roman soldiers of the first legion. They stood in shock, as they did not know what to do. If the Foederati were out of control, they did not have the means to rein them in.

Soon the town was lit ablaze, and bodies were piled in the streets. The Gothic Foederati rushed into the homes and plundered everything of worth. Not just food, but silver, gold, wine. Everything was stripped from the homes before the buildings were lit ablaze.

Marcellus could only gaze in horror as the town was slaughtered. Oddly enough, the mayor was still alive, albeit barely. He clutched his bleeding abdomen as he grabbed onto Marcellus’ ankle with his free hand. The look of hatred in the man’s eyes haunted Marcellus as the mayor spoke the words.

“You did this! You and your damned rebellion! Why don’t you see that? Even if you win the war, there will just be another young man like you in the future who will rise against you *cough* Burn in hell, you damned traitor!”

After saying those words, the mayor keeled over and died. Marcellus gazed upon the blazing scene of the Roman village, and realized that in his desperation to free his mother from her captivity, he had become a villain, just like Honorius before him.

Despite the overwhelming guilt Marcellus felt, he did not falter, instead his resolved grew. He realized at that moment that perhaps Rome needed a proper villain. A man whose tyranny would end the cycle of rebellion that had plagued the Empire for centuries.

Since there was nobody besides him who could assume this role, the responsibility for Rome’s future fell upon his shoulders. Marcellus swore as he gazed upon the burning town that he would never forget the price that had to be paid to restore Rome to its former glory, he vowed to bear the burden that came with such a future, no matter how many innocent lives were lost in its pursuit.

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