The Valentian Campaign

by Marc Jones

  Cato’s Cavalry

  Volume Two

  A novel of Alternate History

  By Marc Hywel Jones

  Kindle Edition

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  Copyright 2014 Marc H Jones

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  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Preface

  For Kathleen. Who has continued to encourage me to write. I love you so much.

  Foreword

  This is the second part of Cato’s Cavalry. Volume One dealt with the invention of the stirrup, and the changes that then occurred in Britannia and Gaul. Volume Two covers what happens as the changes continue to ripple outwards, affecting the Western Roman Empire and Northern Britannia. A small change can have an immense impact.

  Dramatis Personae

  Lucius Tullius Cato – a Roman soldier who had a bright idea

  Marcus Ambrosius Aurelianus – a Roman veteran who knew a good idea when he saw it

  Marcus Valerius Poplicala – a Roman soldier who is sharper than he looks

  Valeria Messalina – a barmaid with brains

  Corcorix – a Legionary who fell off his horse a lot in Volume One, but who is now a veteran

  Honorius – Emperor of Rome and the man who thinks that he should be in charge

  Flavius Stilicho – half Roman, half Vandal, the man who is actually in charge

  Lucius Vitalis – a man who thinks that he should be in charge, at least of Britannia

  Vitalinus – his son, who hopefully will never be known as Vortigern

  Quintus Gratianus – a Roman soldier who realised that Hadrian’s Wall was a bit rickety

  Gaius Marcus Belgicus – a friend to the above, but who remains an idiot

  Telorix – a man on Hadrian’s Wall who doesn’t want to be in charge of a fort

  Honorius – a man on Hadrian’s Wall who’s too stubborn to die

  Hengist – a Saxon with a lot of hate

  Flavius Constantius – a Roman in Gaul who seems to be perpetually bad-tempered

  Place names

  Alt Clud – Dumbarton Rock

  Augusta Treverorum – Trier

  Bononia – Boulogne

  Calleva Atrebatum – Silchester Roman Town

  Cambodunum – Slack, West Yorkshire

  Colonia Agrippinensium – Cologne

  Condate – Northwich

  Conovium – Abergwyngregyn

  Corinium – Cirencester

  Danubius – Danube

  Deva – Chester

  Dubris – Dover

  Eboracum – York

  Glevum – Gloucester

  Isca Augusta – Caerleon

  Letocetum – Wall, Staffordshire

  Lindum - Lincoln

  Londinium – London

  Lugdunum – Lyon

  Luguvalium – Carlisle

  Lutetia – Paris

  Magna Germania – Germany East of the Rhine

  Mogontiacum – Mainz

  Portus Adurni – Portchester

  Portus Itius – Roman port, possibly between Wissant and Boulogne

  Rhenus – Rhine

  Segontium – Caernarfon

  Tricensimae - Xanten

  Valentia – Southern Scotland, between Hadrian’s Wall and the Antonine Wall

  Venonae – High Cross, Leicestershire

  Venta Silurum – Caerwent, Gwent

  Viroconium - Wroxeter

  Chapter One

  He was so tired. Tired and afraid, if he had to admit it. Flavius Stilicho sat at his desk and looked bleakly down at the reports in front of him. The Western Roman Empire was in slightly better order than it had been three years ago. But only just. Yes, he had defeated one barbarian invasion over the Rhenus at Mogontiacum and then another incursion further South the previous year.

  Some of the innocents entering the Senate might have thought that that would have been enough to have him hailed as a hero. Sadly, that would never be the case. That was where the fear came in. It never really went away – anyone in a position such as his who claimed anything different was either a liar or a madman.

  He was Magister Militum of Rome, in charge of its armies (or rather the slowly reforming and badly savaged Legions that had been so misused over the past ten years). He was also Consul, not that that title meant much due to the sheep that made up the Senate. Finally, he was also the power behind the throne, which was a far more nebulous – and therefore dangerous – title. He relied on influence, the projection of power, the ability to overawe the Emperor (not as easy as it had been, as Honorious was getting older and more stubborn by the day) and the fact that he could inspire fear in people by just looking at them.

  But that said, the limits of his power were… becoming apparent, so to speak. There were a lot of people who wanted him dead. For various reasons. Some because they wanted to be in his position. Some because he was a threat to them. And some simply because he was half-Vandal.

  There were other limits. His reach into Gaul wasn’t as powerful as he would have liked and he worried about that fact. It wasn’t as if the Gauls were about to split off from Rome and declare a second Gaulish Empire anytime soon, but there was a worrying amount of distance between Rome and Gaul at the moment. Oh, it was nothing that he could put his finger on for the time being, but it was still worrying.

  The Limes on the Rhenus were still weak. Not as weak as they had been but still too weak for his liking. He needed more muscle behind them and that muscle was still lacking, as the Senate still refused to provide the money for a field army, the fools. Which was the reason why he had been recruiting as much as possible. Especially amongst the Visigoths.

  Ah, the Visigoths. With Alaric now rotting in the ground there were now four candidates for his crown. And the more they fought against each other (with a little added prodding) the weaker the Visigoths became. Oh, how the wheel had turned. It was Rome’s vengeance for the Battle of Adrianople.

  But his recruitment of Visigoths and his plans to settle them along the Rhenus had brought more problems. People were wondering if he was recruiting his own private army, to use against his enemies. And he’d heard reports that many of the higher officials in Gaul were getting annoyed about the plans to resettle the Visigoths.

  Oh and then there was the little problem of Britannia. The authorities there weren’t in revolt, but were getting dangerously independent. There was little he could do about that at the moment and they certainly had the authority to defend themselves against the barbarian raids that they were facing, but that was at the far end of his reach at the moment. If they asked for more help there was nothing he could send them. Not just now.

  He looked at the map on the table and his jaw set. There were other barbarians on the move, outside the Empire. And that was the final reason why he was afraid. Italy had to be defended.

  Lucius Tullius Cato wasn’t fond of helmets with plumes on them. On the field of battle they tended to identify you rather too well. Yes, your men could see where you were, but then so could the enemy. Ah well, at least he wasn’t wearing the kind of idiotically brightly-burnished armour that he’d once seen a particularly idiotic officer wearing in Mesopotamia. He’d fallen victim to an archer.

  Instead he was wearing a plumed he
lmet (moderate plumes, he’d insisted), a leather cuirass (alright, so it had been buffed up a bit, but it was still leather and therefore comfortable) and he was sitting on Mars, who had achieved the vacant stare of the bored horse who can’t quite sleep standing up. He was also wearing his cincticulus, the scarlet piece of cloth around his waist that marked him out as a Legatus Legionis, in charge of a Legion.

  And in front of him were three Turmae of cavalry, who weren’t making too bad a fist of the manoeuvres that they had been assigned. They weren’t massively complex manoeuvres – just trotting and wheeling in formation, coupled with some basic tactical moves like opening files to prepare to pass infantry forward, but it was better than anything that they’d been able to do before.

  He thought about the battle that some of them had been through not five months before and he nodded to himself slightly. Well, they weren’t veterans, not by any stretch of the imagination. But then they weren’t raw recruits either – they’d been able to see Death right in front of them, and it had changed them. It always did.

  Cato looked over at the fence at the far side of the parade ground and resisted the temptation to smile and wave at his wife and son. Valeria was holding young Marcus up and the toddler was watching raptly, waving his chubby little arms at the horses.

  His glimpse of his family forced his attention back on the Turmae as they trotted past him again. They were coming to the end of the final evolution and he could see the banners start to be untied from the poles by the bannermen.

  Oh they looked so very impressive but they weren’t enough, not really. They needed more. More infantry, more engineers, more marines, even if the latter were bunch of salt-encrusted idiots. He was starting to get a feeling for what was needed here in Britannia. After so many meetings with Marcus Ambrosius Aurelianus, the man in charge of Deva and part of the North, he was starting to get an idea about just what was happening. And if he had to train those men into the ground to buy time for the others to strengthen Britannia he’d do it. Because he had a wife and a son and he’d seen the faces of those who wanted to raid or even settle on the shores of Britannia – and he’d do anything to smash the latter to save the former. Anything.

  Chapter Two

  The sun was shining now from a clear blue sky. The morning had started off dark and murky, with grey clouds rolling in from the West that had also brought a touch of rain. But the clouds had swept away Eastwards and now the stone bench had dried off enough to sit on.

  Marcus Ambrosius Aurelianus the Elder looked over the garden that surrounded him. He needed to cut that rose bush back again, he could see that instantly. This was his garden, his place to work and think. To worry, not to put too fine a point on it.

  He smiled slightly and then stretched slightly, wincing as something cracked in his back. He’d been working too hard again, as his son would no doubt tell him yet again. The boy worried about him. When he was around that is. Hopefully he worried a little less when he was off training. There was a lot for him to absorb. Training with Cato for a start, who had seen more young officers then he probably cared to remember and who had given the ancient ultimate accolade of the former non-commissioned officer by telling him that his son seemed to be doing well and “might make an officer one day if he keeps his eyes open”.

  Well, young Marcus was training with the infantry today. They had once been a part of the XX Legion, but they’d been left behind by an administrative oversight when the Valeria Victrix had left for Gaul. Strictly speaking they were now on detachment, not being a part of any legion.

  Well, they were recruiting and training and above all building. And every man of them was needed. Being an old soldier himself he knew just how valuable they were. They represented a pool of knowledge. How to march easily, how to fight efficiently, how build encampments, how to build defences, how to build field artillery… it was a long list.

  By combining the men with the local recruits and the small mountain of weapons and armour that had been discovered in various warehouses in the area over the years, they could create a force of infantry that could back up the cavalry well. The problem was that it took time. And he wasn’t sure that time was on their side. There was too much uncertainty in the air, too much to do.

  Magna Germania was still in chaos and there was every chance that there would be more raids by the Sea Wolves. So far the raids South of the Wall had been defeated. It was the ones that were happening North of the Wall that he worried about. The Votadini were concerned and as far as he was concerned they were right to be. The area between the Wall and the Antonine Wall to the North of that had always been a tricky place to manage. The tribes there had had new leaders imposed on them years before after an abortive rebellion. The new leaders, being originally Roman, had done their best to exert control, but things had always been a bit chaotic. With Roman influence having ebbed with the withdrawal of the Legions from Britannia, he didn’t like to think.

  The last thing they needed was to have the Votadini weakened by Sea Wolf raids to the point where they’d call for help. That would stretch them even thinner.

  Time. They needed time. Time to consolidate, time to train, time to build. And he wasn’t sure how much of that precious commodity they had.

  The fire was starting to burn low in the hearth in front of him when Chilperic returned to the room. His father, Gundahar, was still sitting there, in exactly the same place as when Chilperic had left. He paused and looked at him. For the first time he could see the grey in his father’s hair and the lines that had appeared around his eyes. The kingship was aging him, he thought. Too much strain.

  He remembered what Uncle Giselher had looked like before he’d died and suppressed a wince. Well, it wasn’t as if the Burgundii had been exactly lucky over the past few years. The attack by the Alans had been bad enough, but the subsequent attack by the Alemanni had been even worse, the Crone take the black-hearted lot of them.

  Not the Alemanni had profited much by it. They’d made the mistake of trying to cross the Rhenus into Gaul and the bloody Romans had gutted them like hogs.

  But it wasn’t as if the Burgundii had been able to profit much from that themselves. Part of the tribe had split off before that and had joined the great army that the kings of the Franks and the Vandals had been forming on the East bank of the Rhenus. Well that had been a fucking disaster. The Romans had smashed them to pieces at Mogontiacum and the remaining survivors had scattered. Chaos had followed – and the Burgundii had not been in a position to withstand the worst of it.

  Chilperic stepped forwards. “Father.”

  Gundahar looked up. “What news? How many?”

  “Ten thousand spears at the most. No more than that. There’s no word at all from the North.” Chilperic shook his head as he sat next to his father. “They either cannot come or they’re dead.”

  Silence fell, broken only by the crackling from the fire. “I had word today from the East,” Gundahar eventually said. “The Ostrogoths are on the move. Small bands only, but if they’re starting to move then they’re being pushed by someone even further to the East. And with the Franks gone then who knows who will fill the gap?”

  “Troubled times father. Troubled times.”

  His father hawked and spat into the flames. “Troubled? No. Fucking cursed. Nothing has gone right with us these past five years. Nothing. War, flooding, pestilence and hordes of foreigners. Thieving bastards to a man. Well, enough. West would be folly. North would be madness. East would be a different madness. Maybe South instead. Towards the mountains, but not as far as the Roman mountains. If we can hold enough land and build up again maybe we can form a bulwark against the next batch of invaders. And perhaps if we offer to help the Romans they might help us in turn?”

  Chilperic stared doubtfully at his father. “You mean fight for them as… what’s the word? Foederati?”

  Gundahar laughed softly. “No, not that. Never that. Have you forgotten what’s happening to the Visigoths right now? Being ca
rved into a dozen factions, all fighting each other? I’d rather slit my own throat now. No, if we can build ourselves up then we can show them that if we can protect our borders then they benefit from that.”

  “No more raids on them then?”

  “No.” Gundahar shook his head fiercely, his shaggy locks flying around his head. “That would be madness now. We don’t have the strength any more.”

  Chilperic winced. “The leaders of the warbands won’t like it.”

  “I don’t care. It’s that or die. Stilicho needs to defend the Limes against the enemies of Rome and defend his own position at the same time. Attacking us because of some raids would strengthen his position. So – we don’t give him the opportunity. Instead we point out that we can help him by defending ourselves.”

  “That’s a gamble father.”

  Gundahar looked him and Chilperic blanched as he saw the terrible bleakness in his father’s eyes. “It’s a gamble that we have no choice over. None at all.” His switched his gaze back to the fire. “Pass the word that we march South at the time of the new moon.”

  Chapter Three

  Aurelianus looked out over the Basilica in Londinium and smiled slightly. He liked this place. Not as much as the smaller but more intimate market place in Deva, but there was something about Londinium that always intrigued him. He supposed it was the mix of people here. In Deva there were Brigantes, Cornovii, Coritani, Ordovices and of course Romans. Even the occasional Gaul. But Londinium… well from his vantage spot he could see Gauls, Hispanians, at least one Syrian, several Goths (what were they doing there?) and a group of Greeks. They all seemed to be bartering furiously but above all peacefully.

  “I see that it’s business as usual,” a voice grumbled to one side and he smiled at his old friend Poplicala.

  “Yes, the panic of the recent past seems to have ebbed a bit. Bad for business.”

  Poplicala looked around them carefully and then moved a little closer. “Have you heard any more about the unrest in Gaul that Cornelius Felix mentioned?”