Name: Valerius Aristarchus of Antioch, former Komes of Imperial Bukellarii Birth Date: The Ides of August, 508 A.D. Age 28 at his (first) death. Description: Height - 67 inches. Weight - 155 Pounds. Hair - Midnight black. Eyes - Deep brown. Skin - Fair, but tanned and weathered by a decade and a half of soldiering. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++ Chapter 1: Spears on the Tiber. Valerius silently cursed the iron grey sleet that pelted his command. **Can't see a stadia in this blasted muck!** Valerius suppressed a shiver as the icy droplets penetrated his mail lorika and his woolen tunic to dribble down his chest in chill rivulets. **By the Virgin, t'will be a miracle if I don't catch my death of cold!!** He crossed himself quickly, for such vulgar use of the Holy Mother's name was bound to bring trouble. He reined in his spirited chestnut mare, Pella, and turned back to check on his men. Behind him, strung out in a column of fours, the three hundred troopers of his bandon plodded on with heads down, shoulders hunched against the freezing rain. Every lance pennon hung plastered to the shaft; every leathern bow-case was sealed tight against the weather. Valerius cracked a ghost of a smile. The *only* good thing to come of their garrison of Rome since their triumphant entry in December was that he'd had the chance to train his troops to fight with both lance and bow, as Lord Belisarius' hypaspists did. Valerius himself had been a hypaspist since the beginning, joining Belisarius' personal guard on the eve of his first great victory against the Persians at Daras. At that battle he had earned Belisarius' notice, capturing the commander of the Persian left wing with his draco standard. Promoted to Illarch, he had fought beside the great general through the North African campaign against the Vandals. At the battle of Ad Decimum he was in John's advance guard, and slew the Vandal leader Ammatas in hand to hand combat. In the final battle at Tricamerum, Valerius was in the thick of the fighting, and led a cavalry squadron in pursuit of the Vandal king, Gelimer. It was at this time that the general took Valerius under his wing, teaching him the subtleties of military strategy and tactics. Valerius became a confidant for his commander, a sounding board for his battle plans. Unfortunately, he also attracted the notice of Belisarius' wife Antonina. Antonina would brook no rival for her husband's attention, and resented that he would seek any counsel but hers. Since Antonina was herself the confidant of the Empress Theodora, Valerius would come to regret her enmity. Valerius returned to Constantinople with Belisarius, whom the Emperor feted with a Triumph. Valerius himself was promoted to Komes, a rank that western barbarians corrupted to 'count', just as they corrupted Belisarius' title Dux to 'duke'. During the celebration Valerius was enchanted by Ariadne of Tarsus, a handmaiden to the Empress. Although Valerius was an orthodox Christian and Ariadne a Monophysite, the two fell in love. Belisarius had to personally intervene for the with the Emperor to bless the union, but the pair were married by the Patriarch himself under the dome of the unfinished Hagia Sophia. Shortly after their wedding, Justinian dispatched Belisarius back to North Africa to deal with the rebel Stozas and his mutineers. Valerius bade Ariadne farewell, promising a swift return. While he was in North Africa, Antonina prevailed on the Empress to have Ariadne whisked away to a Monophysite abbey in Egypt. There, Monophysite clerics annulled her marriage to Valerius and forced her to take Holy Vows. On his return from North Africa, Valerius found his wife missing. He tracked her down with the help of Ariadne's sister Diodora, and took a small group of loyal friends to break her out of the abbey. When he arrived, he found that the Empress had forestalled him, moving Ariadne to another abbey in Anatolia. Valerius arrived at the Abbey St. Mary Magdalena just as a squad of soldiers of the Imperial Guard were moving Ariadne once more. There was a fight amid the rocky hills of Anatolia, and both sides were mauled; Valerius managed to escape with Ariadne and his three surviving friends to Cilicia, where they took ship for the west and escape from Theodora's clutches. Just off the isle of Lesbos they were caught in a storm. The ship sank, and though one of his friends survived, Ariadne's body was never found. They were arrested and brought to trial by Imperial forces on Lesbos, but again Belisarius intervened. He pleaded with the Emperor for leniency, citing the abduction and forced annulment as well as the illegal enforced Vows. Justinian, who was as devout in his Orthodoxy as the Empress was Monophysite, dismissed the charges. He castigated the proud Theodora in front of the Imperial Court for her part in these deeds, noting the untrustworthiness of Monophysite heretics and assuring them that steps would be taken against them. Theodora glared at Valerius as he was led from court. Valerius knew he had acquired another powerful enemy. When the call to march against the Goths came, Valerius was anxious to leave Constantinople and the terrible memories there. He joined Belisarius on the ship to Sicily, and distinguished himself in that brief campaign and in the subsequent landing in Italia. After the storming of Neapolis, Belisarius granted him an independent command. Valerius had been among the first to march into Rome, unopposed. The city was reduced to a stark pile of masonry, leaning drunkenly on the Seven Hills like some sot collapsed in a back alley. Where a million people once thrived and the world met conduct trade and diplomacy, there were now less than a tenth of that number. The huddled masses moved like ghosts among the shattered city. Valerius walked the rubbled slopes of the Capitoline Hill, and climbed to the pinnacle of the silent Forum. He picked through the flame-blackened masonry of the Colliseum, and let the stained sand of the Circus Maximus run through his fingers. He saw barefoot friars holding Mass where once the Vestal Virgins kept the Flame. The cavalryman was shaken by the sight. All that he believed was predicated on certain unalterable truths, among them the power of Love, the faith of the Church, and the enduring might of Rome. Here, under leaden December skies, the last pillar of his faith was thrown down in ruin. Ariadne was gone, betrayed by the Empress who should have protected her; the Church was splintered into factions at war with one another, wracked by heresy even in the Imperial Household; and Rome... even mighty Rome was but a sleet- choked, poverty-stricken ruin. Valerius entered the Senate chamber in the Capitol, one of the few municipal buildings still in regular use. Here the pitiful remnants of the Imperial Senate in the west met to debate policy they had no power to enforce, levy taxes they could not collect, and raise armies they could not pay. He beheld the great statue of Romulus and Remus suckled by the Wolf, staring down mutely on the farce that was Rome. Slowly he sank to his knees, drawing his sword and holding it before him, point down on the marble floor like a cross. "Almighty Father, father of our Lord Jesus Christ, how have we displeased you so? What evil is in our hearts that You should have visited this fate on the City of Paul and the martyrs?" "I cannot believe that Rome is dead, Father. Make me Thy servant, an instrument to purge evil from palace and pulpit. Strengthen me, so that I may bring back Rome's light to a world gone dark." Valerius looked up. For the first time since Lesbos, tears were running down his cheeks. He grit his teeth. "For I *will* throw down those who destroyed my Ariadne. Those who hide behind their Holy Vows will be winnowed out like chaff from wheat, and burned in the fire. And those who slew Rome will know the meaning of... justice." Valerius changed that day. He was quieter, but Belisarius could see a cold fire burning inside his young protege. The Komes drilled his troops mercilessly, driving them to become as good as Belisarius' own. Belisarius was preparing the city for a siege. The Goths had an army of 30,000 near Ravenna, and Belisarius knew he could not face them in the field. Valerius became his chief deputy, driving the troops hard to prepare for the inevitable assault. The walls of the city were repaired and strengthened; provisions were purchased or requisitioned; grain was planted in every vacant plot in the half-empty city; catapults and ballistae were emplaced on the walls; the citizens of the city were conscripted and placed under arms. In February, confused reports came in from the north. The Gothic king, Theodahad, had been deposed and murdered. His successor, an energetic young warrior named Wittiges, was moving south to invest the city at last. Belisarius dispatched Valerius to investigate rumors that the Goths had crossed the Tiber on their way to recapture the city. He led one of three flying columns speeding northeast along the banks of the Tiber. His job was to confirm the reports and delay the enemy long enough to ensure that the city could be closed against the siege. The only thing that bothered Valerius - other than the weather, of course - was that Belisarius himself had insisted on leading the center column personally. Now the sleet was slashing down at the column, cutting through cloak and tunic to chill the bone. Valerius' troops hunched low over the horses' croups, and their chargers' heads hung low. Icy sheets encrusted armor, cracking as the men moved. To their left, the Tiber rushed along it's grey course, not reckoning with the passing of nations or the wars of men. Valerius squinted into the storm. Belisarius was somewhere ahead in that murk. He had left an hour before Valerius, and had taken a direct route to the fortified fords of the upper Tiber. Valerius had swung east, away from the river, to ensure that the Goths were not approaching from the east to catch the city unawares. Valerius had hurried through his circuit and back to the river; his soldier's instincts were warning him that something was amiss. Above the hissing tinkle of sleet, the snort of horses, and the clop of hooves on the paved Roman road, Valerius heard a faint sound. Metal on metal. A trumpet, scarcely to be heard. Valerius cursed the sleet that made their composite bows useless. The powerful weapons would have to stay in their leathern cases at the rider's hips. It would be a sword-day, a day of the lance. He turned to his first Lochogos, or file leader. "Guidons, to me!" The order rippled down the line, and was answered by thundering hooves. When the squadron commanders had gathered at Valerius' position, he outlined his plan. "Form up in squadrons abreast. Guide on the left-hand squadron, which will ride straight down the road. That'll be you, Varro." He clapped the tough veteran on the back. The designated Illarch nodded. "I will be with the center squadron," Valerius went on. "Ready lances! There's a fight ahead, and I want no trumpets 'til we're on them. Keep your bows cased," he added, glaring at an eager young front rank soldier who was breaking his out. "And keep your eyes open. We won't know what we're getting into until we're already too deep to get out. First Illarch to spot the enemy breaks silence with the trumpet call to charge. Don't wait for the rest of the bandon; charge as soon as you make contact, and keep going until you reach the Tiber crossing. We have two objectives. First, cut down any Goth who stands in our way. We need to hold the river crossing until the general makes it back to the city and rallies the defenses." Valerius tapped his frosty armor. A large chunk cracked off and shattered on the paving stones beneath his horse's feet. "Second, Belisarius may be in danger," he said softly. The officers murmured; Belisarius was a popular commander. "If any of you spot him, drag him out of the fray. I want someone to personally escort him back to the city. If he tries to stay, knock him on the head or something. We can't afford to lose him." He glanced back through the sleet toward the Eternal City. "*Rome* needs him." His hawklike gaze swept over the assembled officers. "Questions? Comments?" The officers glanced around. "No sir," Varro put in. Then, in a quieter tone, " Good luck." "Good luck to all of you. God protect you." The officers wheeled their mounts and dashed back to their squadrons. The unit performed swiftly, just as they had on the parade field. Within moments, Valerius' Bukellari were formed up in a line of squadrons abreast, shields up, lances at the ready. The Valerius raised his hand, then dropped it. The Bandon surged forward at the canter. The sounds of battle drew closer. Some of the troopers muttered, but a sharp word from their officers silenced them. Cold fear clawed at their guts as they rode on toward the unseen battle. The horses snorted and pranced as they approached, sensitive ears erect and tails switching nervously. Suddenly, a sharp trumpet blast from the left of the line made them jump. **Varro! Might have known you'd spot them first!** The thought shot through Valerius mind as he dug his heels into Pella. The chestnut mare leaped as if stung. From the throats of three hundred lancers came a moaning chant. "Nobiscum... Nobiscum...!" **'God with us.' I wonder if he was with Rome when the Goths sacked her.** Valerius shook his head, as much to clear the betraying thought from his mind as to shake the frozen rain out of his eyes. The melee materialized out of the storm; white-clad Gothic cavalry wielding long swords grappled with the scarlet-cloaked troopers of Belisarius' hypaspists. "Hai! Death to the Goths! To Belisarius!" Valerius' powerful voice thundered above the fray, and the Bukellari took up his cry: "Belisarius!!" The fresh, formed ranks of Valerius' troopers smashed into the Goths like a thunderbolt. Long lances pierced corselet and helm; weary warriors were ridden down by the furious Bukellari. Sword clanged on sword, or beat dully against shield. Men groaned and toppled from the saddle, only to be crushed by the stamping hooves of screaming horses. Valerius' eyes glinted as he drove his lance through a flaxen-haired warrior who was about to cut down a red-clad trooper. The lance broke off a foot from the head, but he drove it into the face of a second warrior just as the Goth wheeled to face him. As the weapon shivered into bloody fragments, he swept out his spathion and cut at a third Goth, who caught the blow on his shield. A blow from behind made Valerius' head ring. He reeled in the saddle, yanking viciously on the reins. Pella whirled and reared, lashing out with sharp hooves; a wet crunch and a gurgling screech told Valerius that the mare had found her mark. Pella ran wildly, and Valerius clung to the reins. His vision cleared to reveal a knot of scarlet cloaks ringed by a mass of barbarians in white linen and mail. The Goths were pressing the Imperial troopers back upon the burning remnants of the bridge fortifications. In the center of the guardsmen, Valerius glimpsed a familiar face. "BELISARIUS!!" Valerius shrieked his name and kneed Pella into another charge. The Gothic warriors half-turned to see what demon was upon them just as Valerius crashed into their serried ranks. Hacking madly, the Komes slashed one Goth across the face; he dropped, gagging blood. A wicked backslash tore a deep gash in the shoulder of a second warrior, while Pella trampled two more under her flashing hooves. The Goths gave back before him, their their eyes bulging in supernatural terror. The hypaspists instantly charged their foes, driving the Goths away from the bridge in a headlong counterattack. Caught between the cream of the Empire and a hell-wrought frost demon, their line buckled. But they did not break. Warriors born, bred to steel and the saddle, their chieftains shouted and beat their warriors back into line with the flats of their blades. One white-clad chieftain pointed at Valerius and screamed a command. The Goths attacked furiously, and Valerius was caught in a sea of struggling white. Blades clashed against his lorika and struck sparks from his helm. Pella went down screaming, disembowelled, and he was dashed against the hard paving stones of the Roman road. Valerius rose, dazed, and just managed to deflect a sword slash with his shield. He thrust hard at the warrior, catching him in the chest. The long blade slid into his unarmored chest with a grating crunch, and bright blood spurted into Valerius' face. He had a vision of the man's eyes rolling back as he coughed blood and collapsed, wrenching his sword out of his hand. A shearing pain ripped through Valerius' side as a Gothic sword found it's mark. Another blade crashed down on his helm, splitting it; his own blood rushed into his eyes, and he dropped to his knees. Finally, a spear tore into his chest, thrust down into him be a young warrior with wide, frightened eyes. Valerius felt the life running out of him as he collapsed to the pavement, staring at his slayer, oblivious to the sleet that lashed at his upturned face. He was dimly aware that the hypaspists had reached him, and that they were beating the foe back. The wide-eyed Goth was run through from behind, too intent on Valerius to know his doom was on him. Out of the corner of his eye Valerius saw his own Bukellari force their way into view. Shouts of victory mingled with trumpets and the sounds of pursuit. Belisarius' face materialized above Valerius. He was wounded, his helm gone and his gilded armor was scored in a dozen places. "Valerius! Blast you, why'd you have to charge alone like that?" He motioned to several hypaspists, who slid spears under Valerius and hoisted him up. "We'll get you back to Rome. You saved my backside, and I'll be hanged if I'm going to let you die!" Valerius summoned his waning strength to grab his commander's tunic. "No.. way..." he coughed. Blood trickled down his chin as he struggled to speak. "Done... already. Burn bridge... save Rome. Promise!" Belisarius gripped Valerius' hand. "I promise." He crossed himself. "In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, I swear it." Valerius fell back. The pain was diminishing; maybe he was numb from the cold and shock. "Good." He shuddered. Was his vision clearing, or was he seeing beyond the veil? "In... river," he gasped. "Can't carry... to Rome. Don't... Goths... get me." Belisarius looked at Valerius aghast, but bowed his head. "All right," he said slowly. Turning to the hypaspists, he said, "*All* our dead go into the river. See to it." As his men turned to obey, Varro rode up. Belisarius saluted him. "Varro, you have the Bukellari now. Secure the bridge and be ready to throw it down as soon as the Goths return." Varro stared at Valerius for a long moment. He raised his fist to his breast in one final salute, then turned to his new duties. Belisarius turned back to the dying man, drawing his dagger. Valerius saw it and nodded, his labored breathing a gasping counterpoint to the sleet. The dagger plunged home, swift and merciful, and Valerius knew no more. Of the Byzantine Empire the universal verdict of history is that it constitutes, with scarcely an exception, the most thoroughly base and despicable form that civilisation has yet assumed...there has been no other enduring civilisation so absolutely destitute of all the forms and elements of greatness, and none to which the epithet _mean_ may so emphatically be applied. The Byzantine Empire was pre-eminently the age of treachery. Its vices were the vices of men who had ceased to be brave without learning to be virtuous. Without patriotism, without the fruition or desire of liberty, after the first paroxysms of religious agitation, without genius or intellectual activity; slaves, and willing slaves, in both their actions and their thoughts, immersed in sensuality and in the most frivolous pleasures, the people only emerged from their listlessness when some theological subtilty, or some rivalry in the chariot races, stimulated them into frantic riots. They exhibited all the externals of advanced civilisation. They possessed knowledge; they had continually before them the noble literature of ancient Greece, instinct with the loftiest heroism; but that literature, which afterwards did so much to revivify Europe, could fire the degenerate Greeks with no spark or semblance of nobility. The history of the Empire is a monotonous story of the intrigues of priests, eunuchs and women, of poisoning, of conspiracies, of uniform ingratitude, of perpetual fratricides....At last the Mohammedan invasion terminated the long decrepitude of the Eastern Empire. Constantinople sank beneath the Crescent, its inhabitants wrangling about theological differences to the very moment of their fall. -W.E.H. Lecky, "History of European Morals" His lofty stature and majestic countenance fulfilled their expectations of a hero...By the union of liberality and justice he acquired the love of the soldiers, without alienating the affections of the people. The sick and wounded were relieved with medicines and money, and still more efficaciously by the healing visits and smiles of their commander...In the license of a military life, none could boast that they had seen him intoxicated with wine; the most beautiful captives of the Gothic or Vandal race were offered to his embraces, but he turned aside from their charms, and the husband of Antonina was never suspected of violating the laws of conjugal fidelity. The spectator and historian of his exploits has observed that amidst the perils of war he was daring without rashness, prudent without fear, slow or rapid according to the exigencies of the moment; that in the deepest distress he was animated by real or apparent hope, but that he was modest and humble in the most prosperous fortune. -Gibbon, on Belisarius, from "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire", Chapter XLI The bright waves scour the wound of Carthage. The shadows of gulls run spiderlike through Carthage. The cohorts of sand are wearing Carthage Hollow and desolate as a turning wave; But the bronze eagle has flown east from Rome. Rome remember, remember the seafowls' sermon That followed the beaked ships westward to their triumph. O Rome, you city of soldiers, remember the singers That cry with dead voices along the African shore. Rome remember, the courts of learning are tiled With figures from the east like running nooses. The desolate bodies of boys in the blue glare Of falling torches cannot stir your passion. Remember the Greeks who measured out your doom. Remember the soft funereal Etruscans. O when the rain beats with a sound like bells Upon your bronze-faced monuments, remember This European fretful-fingered rain Will turn to swords in the hand of Europe's anger. Remember the Nordic snarl and the African sorrow. The bronze wolf howls when the moon turns red. The trolls are massing for their last assault. Your dreams are full of claws and scaly faces And the Gothic arrow is pointed at your heart. Rome remember your birth in Trojan chaos. O think how savage will be your last lamenters: How alien the lovers of your ghost. -Sidney Keyes, "Rome Remember" .......... March 3, 537 A.D. Rome .......... Or not Rome, rather, but on the shores of the Tiber, just beyond the city walls, where you have washed ashore. It was precisely to avoid this fate that you pleaded with your commander, over his objections, to end your life with a dagger. The white-robed Goths were already swarming over the remaining hypaspists that sought to buy Belisarius time to retreat to the Eternal City, and carrying you would have slowed them too much...and you already knew your wounds were mortal. So Belisarius gave the order that all your dead were to be cast into the Tiber, and for you he did the deed himself. You never saw the bridge burning, but you see it now, downriver, a smoking ruin with a host of Goth warriors beyond, milling about and snarling in such numbers that you can hear their combined growl from here. Unfortunately, you are on the same side of the river as the Goths. The weather has let up some, the sleet turning into cold rain. The Tiber is swollen, its fast current no doubt contributing to the rapid destruction of the bridge. Good. Belisarius must have made it. Now if only the Emperor will send reinforcements in time to drive off Vitiges' army. It won't take the barbarian horde long to find a way across the river, and Belisarius had no desire to settle in for a siege; the Roman citizens were already hardly more sympathetic to your Imperial forces than they were to the Ostrogothic overlords you displaced a few months ago. They could hardly be counted on to show the temper necessary to endure a long siege. Not like the Romans of old. All these concerns are secondary as your mind goes back over a few points you skirted briefly just now, in your mental recalling of recent events. Most especially, that point about (and of) a dagger. The one that pierced your throat. Belisarius would never be so unspeakably clumsy, so careless and incompetent, as to slit his Komes' throat and leave the job improperly done, before throwing his loyal friend and follower into the river, to be carried away by death and the Tiber from the savage vengeance of the Goths. You cannot be alive, but you are. Perhaps you are like a shade, out of the ancient Roman myths, cast back onto the shores of the Styx because you had no toll to offer the ferryman? No, ridiculous....such pagan nonsense is not only irrational, but blasphemous. Nonetheless, you can think of no better explanation why you should be clinging to the half-frozen mud of the riverbank, shivering in drenched, rusting armor, and watching with shock and dread as a company of Gothic horsemen ride by, close enough that if not for their haste, and the pelting rain, they would surely see you lying here. <><><><><> Valerius lifted a shivering, mud-caked hand to his throat... then to his side, and finally to the rent in his armor where a Gothic spear had skewered him like a boar. "No wounds?" The words came out in a gurgling croak. As if summoned by his speech, Valerius gagged and spit up muddy water on the half- frozen river bank. When his chest stopped heaving, he collapsed on the river bank. The cold mud oozed against his face. "Holy Mother of God..." he coughed and spat again. "Lord Jesus I th... thank thee for saving thy servant from... from..." **From what? Death? I was dead! Could it have been a dream...?** His floundering mind sought refuge in the comfort of prayer. Clutching the Tiber's muddy bank with frozen hands, Valerius Aristarchus of Adrianople stumbled through a paean of thanks, undeterred by the river water swirling about his legs. When he finished he looked up again, eyes seeking the battle. Belisarius said... every misfortune had the seed of opportunity, if you only knew where to look. Or was he quoting Scipio Africanus? Julius Caesar, perhaps? His numb mind couldn't sort out the details. At any rate, he would have to see how he might affect this battle. Rome *must* be held. As long as Lord Belisarius made it to the walls, the city might hold. Yet the General would need every man he could get. As he fingered his rusting gear, taking inventory, memories of the Capitoline Hill, the Senate Chambers, the friars in the old Temple of Vesta nagged at him. **Why was I spared, Lord? For my Lord Belisarius, or for the oath? Make me thy tool, Father, that I may smite the heathen...** <> <><><><><> [GM] Your dagger still hangs on your belt, which constricts wetly around your waist. Your scabbard also remained attached, but unfortunately, your sword has been lost to the river. Likewise, your buckler is gone. A dagger and freezing, water-logged armor that right now will be more hindrance than protection, is all you have to get you past several thousand Goths. <><><><><> Slowly, Valerius' numb fingers worked at the buckles of the rusted lorica. After a few fruitless efforts, he yanked his dagger free with a snarl and began hacking and sawing at the sodden leather. The stuff parted slowly, rather like slicing through gristle... but when at last the last skeins parted he felt the tingling, pins-and-needles rush of blood into his limbs. The belt soon followed. He debated hanging on to the heavy, square-toed standard-issue boots; Valerius knew the icy, stony ground would cut his feet to pieces. He winced. The pain in his legs was becoming excruciating, and he'd rather not get back to Rome only to have his legs amputated for gangrene. He struggled with the boots, grinding his teeth in frustration. The soggy leather clung tenaciously to his flesh. Despite the pelting sleet, sweat began to bead on his brow. He was painfully aware that every passing second increased his chances of capture. At last he ran his dagger between his leg and the boot. There was a sucking slurp as the seal parted, and he was able to yank his foot free. The other boot followed swiftly. Valerius bundled his armor and boots and tossed them into the Tiber. **At least those Gothic swine won't lay hands on you.** The soldier quickly assessed his situation. **No armor, no horse, and only a dagger for a weapon. It's time to beat a hasty retreat to the walls. But where to enter?** He moved to the nearest cover, then crouched to consider his next move. **It will take time for the heretics to throw a cordon around all of Rome, and they will guard the obvious approaches - north toward Gothic territory, southwest toward the Port of Ostia and south toward Neapolis - most heavily. Belisarius would try to keep the Ostian gate open as long as possible, of course... to keep his supply lines open.** The best bet was to cross to the east bank somehow and head for the Tiburtine or Praenestine gates. Valerius stared at the Tiber glumly. He knew Belisarius had collected every boat a day's ride up and downriver to prevent the Goths from using them, so there was little hope of a dry crossing. He certainly had no desire to face th dark, frigid flood of the river as a swimmer! Worse, if he got swept downstream his own comrades would feather him for an infiltrator as soon as they caught sight of him. A crossing seemed out of the question. So here he was, stuck on the west bank, swarming with Gothic Arian heretics. Sleet was collecting in his hair and clothing, he was soaked to the bone and shivering, and his feet were numb. Well, almost. He could feel the mud squishing between his icy toes. Oh, yes, and he was wearing the elaborate tunic of an Imperial Kometes. Well, he would not stoop to wearing Gothic regalia, even if it was warm and dry and kept him from capture. If it came to it he would risk capture and hope for a prisoner exchange rather than stoop to the level of a barbarian. "Enough planning." Valerius' voice was a harsh croak. He set out west and south, determined to make a wide circle to the Ostian gate. If it was still held by Imperial forces, he would try to enter that way. If not, he's try to work his way back north and find an unguarded section of wall... unguarded by either side, as he did not fancy being spitted by his own troops. He might just get away with it, if the Goths hadn't enough troops and time to cordon the walls completely. He *knew* Belisarius did not have the manpower to cover all the walls. If he worked his way back north to the Septimian Gate, he'd have to try his luck with the river, swimming downstream past the Aurelian Bridge, where the river walls ended, and then exiting the river. He hoped it didn't come to that. First, however, he'd look for a peasant hovel where he might obtain shelter and food... and most important, something to wear on his feet. Not that the peasants wouldn't turn him over to the Goths in a heartbeat, but because he had no choice. Freezing to death was a real possibility right now. <><><><><> [GM] You barely avoid running into another band of Gothic horsemen...they seem to be arriving in greater numbers from the north. If their army is swelling, Belisarius could have real trouble. The first dwelling you find that the Goths have left intact is what once might have been a small villa, but is now a miserable collection of huts, with the old stone central building being occupied by whoever passes for the leader of this group...too small to even be considered a village, possibly just an extended family. They've been left alone by the Goths, but who knows how they feel about Imperials. An aging man and a sullen-looking woman stand beneath a thatched awning that's about to give way under the freezing rain, and watch you approach. <><><><><> Valerius approached slowly, shivering, his bare feet squishing over turf shredded by the iron-hard hooves of Gothic cavalry. Punching the dagger through his tunic at the waist as a sort of sheath, he held his hands out to his sides. His teeth chattered as he asked in Greek- accented Latin, "Peace to you, brother, sister! Can you succor a brother in christ from the elements for a while?" <><><><><> [GM] The two look at each other, then the man nods. "Aye...but I doubt we can succor you from the Goths." They lead you inside, where a tiny fire provides some warmth. "They left us alone after we gave 'em everything we had of value," the man says. "But they still come poking through the villa every day or so. You're a soldier, aren't you? How'd you get seperated from the Imperial army?" <><><><><> Shivering, Valerius was glad to be allowed inside. The fire's heat hammered his half-frozen legs as he huddled as close to the flames as he dared. "Th-the skirmish b-by the b-bridges." He gestured to the northeast. "I end-d-ded up in the river." He blew on his hands. The numbness was fading, replaced by fierce, prickly heat as blood rushed into his fingers and toes. "L-lucky to be alive." The shivering was subsiding fast... faster than he'd ever experienced in all his years soldiering. The supernatural speed of his recovery caused nagging questions to bubble to the surface, questions about why he was alive at all, but he forced them aside. Time enough for questions once he made it inside the walls of Rome. He'd have a Mass sung for his deliverance from death, and then pay a visit to the surgeon. "Thank you for your hospitality brother, sister. I don't wish to put you in danger from the Goths." He shifted, to allow the fire to warm his other side. "I only wish to stay long enough to thaw out... and if you could spare a cloak and some footgear, I'd be grateful. Even some rags to wrap my feet would help. That cold mud stings the toes." <><><><><> [GM] The man sighs. "We've only got a cloak for each of us, not enough to spare you one. It's cold inside too. But I can probably manage footgear." He rummages in the corner. This place probably wasn't always so impoverished. As recently as a few months ago, this couple might have been moderately prosperous landholders. But the Goths retreated, before Belisarius arrived in Rome, and then they returned, which means their army has passed over this plot of land twice. Your host pulls out a worn pair of leather shoes, falling apart but with a few rags wrapped around them, they'll be better than walking barefoot. The woman, not looking unsympathetic, says "Now please...the Goths *will* be back soon, and if they find us sheltering an Imperial...." she shudders. <><><><><> "Many thanks, my brother, my sister. I pray that soon your household will again know the prosperity it once enjoyed. If there is aught that Valerius Aristarchus can do for you, you need only ask." He opened the rude door and peered into the sleet. Once he was sure there were no Goths lurking about, he resumed his furtive circle southwest, to the Ostian gate. <><><><><> [GM] You find yourself foiled in nearly every direction- you can only go so far before you see Goths in view ahead, and you've never been much of a skulker. You don't fancy your chances to sneak past them unseen. Your only choice seems to be waiting for nightfall, and trying to follow the river, hoping the sudden appearance of a night patrol doesn't force you to jump in. Lingering outside in the wet chill, you're soaked and freezing again by the time the sun goes down. Trying to circle around in the concealing darkness, towards the Ostian gate, you are suddenly stopped dead by a foreboding sensation that starts at the base of your neck, and works its way upwards and downwards. Your entire skull seems to be vibrating, and your spine tingles in a not-unpleasant manner, but the feeling is unnatural and alarming. <><><><><> "M-m-must be th' c-c-cold." Valerius mumbled the words through numb lips. The strange tingle made his stomach turn; Holy Mother knew how long it had been since he'd had a decent meal. "C-c-caught somthin' in all th-this blas-asted sleet. S-s-aid I would." He manged a weak smile. That was before the bridge, before the river. A lifetime ago. Without knowing exactly why, Valerius began backtracking to the north. He stumbled over a rock, cursing as lancelets of pain shot up his foot. Squishing through the mud he staggered on, faster and faster, half blind in the sleet. He tugged and tore at the dagger, finally freeing it from where it was tangled in his tunic, the once-proud uniform of an Imperial officer... and now little more than a soaking wet, mud spattered rag. **Sweet Holy Mother, Pray for thy Son's servant in his hour of need...!** <><><><><> [GM] You hear someone treading through the mud behind you, and then a voice calls out in Gothic. Then the man repeats himself, in Latin: "Who are you? Turn and face me! Are you an Imperial swine?" <><><><><> Valerius froze, the hackles on his neck rising. That a barbarian Goth dared called a servant of the Emperor Justinian a swine...!! All thought of cold and mud was forgotten. He turned slowly, grinding his teeth as he glared at the man following him. "You speak Latin remarkably well for a *Goth*. He spat the last word like bitter poison. "I'm surprised you simply didn't run me through from behind, the way you barbarian dogs are wont to do. So, do you take me alone, or will your friends do the deed for you?" As he spoke, Valerius rose up on the balls of his feet and flexed his arms, dagger at the ready. A pitifully inadequate weapon, but it was all the Good Lord saw fit to give His servant in this trial. Valerius quickly assessed the terrain, the weather, and his opponent. If the man was armored, like most Gothic horsemen, his best bet was to avoid the man with an all-out defense until the Goth began to tire, then lure him into a position where terrain gave him the advantage - probably the thickest stuff available, where the other man's greater weapon-reach would do him no good. Of course, in the dark swords are nothing more than long knives, anyway. If the other man was horsed or accompanied, a quick surrender was his only chance. Perhaps he would get lucky and see a prisoner exchange... <><><><><> [GM] The Goth appears to be armored, but he is alone, and on foot. He stalks closer, and says "No, I prefer to take your head face-to-face." He brandishes a long sword. "I am Petric of Heruls." It's a simple declaration, but there is a decided formality to the way he identifies himself, and then pauses expectantly. <><><><><> The man's tone was chilling... as if there were some game being played,and it was his turn. Worse, Pedric's cautious approach marked him as a man of some experience. By the Holy Mother, what is a Herul doing with the Goths? The tribes were forever at each other's throats, but their alliances could be as sudden as their wars. It might be a useful bit of information for Belisarius - *if* he ever got back to Rome. If only the buzz in Valerius skull would abate, so he could think! Valerius circled, seeking to put himself up a slight incline from his foe. "Forgive my deplorable lack of curiosity about your savage ways. My name is known to the Almighty, who alone will judge the issue between us. I have no intention to waste time taking your head, either. Barbarous custom." <><><><><> [GM] The Goth guffaws, as if you've said something highly amusing. "Indeed? Well then, fool, I will surely know your name soon enough anyway." The tingling in your head and spine increases suddenly, and you feel another spasm go through you, as if whatever is causing this supernatural dread has been multiplied. The Goth draws away from you and looks around, snarling something in his language. <><><><><> The tingling reverberated through Valerius' bones. His empty stomach wrenched and heaved - how long had it been since he had last eaten? - and suddenly he realized the buzzing in his skull was not sickness at all. These "Goths" were in fact demons, come to make unholy war on his Lord Belisarius and the Emperor. God spared him to warn Belisarius of what lurked beyond the gates, waiting to devour Rome in it's firey maw. Adrenalin coursed through his veins, blood pounded in his temples. The warrior in him demanded action, to leap and strike and slay these heathens... Satan's slave-soldiers, vanguard of the infernal host. But Valerius was a soldier, not a warrior. Personal honor and fear had no place in the heart of a man sworn to defend God and the Empire. He had a critical piece of information, and it had to get into the right hands. <> He turned and fled like the wind. Racing headlong through the murk, he ran about forty paces, turned hard right and redoubled his pace. **Maybe they... follow... straight on. Miss me. Thisshould... takeme... straightto... wallsofRome... westofTiber!** Driving himself hard. Breath coming in gasps. Greasy mud racing past under roughly-shod feet. **God... guard... goodfolk... hadcompassion... onThyservant... Lord!** Stumbling, sliding in the mud. **H-h-haveto... get... word... to Belisarius!** Over and over again. **Get word to Belisarius!** <><><><><> [GM] "Come back here!" the Goth snarls, and begins chasing you. You are weak, hungry, and freezing, with lousy footwear. It's not much of a contest. You can practically feel the Goth breathing down your neck, when someone or something leaps out of the shadows to your left. You hear an impact, and an "Oof!" from the Goth, then the sound of someone sliding in the mud, and curses in Goth. <><><><><> Valerius twisted his head over his shoulder, trying to see what had hit the Goth. It couldn't be a wild animal, so close to Rome. It had to be a man, and even though it was probably just another Goth... He turned and doubled back, gripping his dagger in a white-knuckled grip. <><><><><> [GM] Two men are scuffling on the ground. Actually, one man is rolling on the ground, the other is standing over him. The one on the ground snarls something in Goth, and sounds like the man who was chasing you earlier. The second man retorts, in the same language. Then he raises a sword, and plunges it into the fallen man's stomach. The impaled Goth thrashes around, trying to grasp the blade, but the other man yanks his sword free, gives his mortally-wounded foe a heavy kick in the side that sends him tumbling down the riverbank, and turns to you. "Well, that wasn't exactly orthodox," he says, in perfect Latin. "Come on, young one, we need to move quickly if we're to avoid his friends." <><><><><> Valerius nodded, still breathing hard. "M...my thanks," he gasped, scrambling after his savior. He followed in silence, still shaking his head. That accursed buzzing was still there, ringing hammers in his skull. <><><><><> [GM] Your mysterious ally leads you on a swift, zig-zagging course that sometimes follows the river, and sometimes veers away from it, through wooded areas, between ruined villas, once skirting the very edge of a Goth camp. He never pauses, and at some points you are almost running to keep up with him. That you could pass directly through so much territory already occupied by the Goth hordes, without being detected, seems no less miraculous than your emerging from the Tiber in the first place, but the other man continues forging ahead without hesitation, as confident as if God Himself were watching over you and had guaranteed you safe passage. As indeed He may have done, for eventually you are gazing at the Aurelian Bridge, north of the city. "How are you at holding your breath?" the other man says, pulling a rope out from beneath his cloak. <><><><><> "Good... enough... I hope." Valerius panted the words. He was exhausted and out of breath, but the long run had warmed him up at least. His face was a mask of sweat and mud spatter, but he managed a determined nod. "I... have a hundred questions... but I imagine... you'll tell me to shut up 'til we're safe." He quirked a sleet-spattered eyebrow. "I was really, *really* going to avoid getting into the Tiber again." <><><><><> [GM] "I'm not keen on it myself," the other man says. "But the alternative is trying to sneak through that mob of Goths and Imperials around the Ostian gate. I could do it, but not with you in tow." He loops one end of the rope around your waist, and proceeds towards the riverbank. He crouches at the shore, looking for something, and then stands, holding a length of chain rising from the water. "Hold onto this," he says. "We'll try to stay on the surface, but if you lose your grip and get sucked under, try not to panic. Trust me, you'll make it to the other side." <><><><><> Valerius nodded. He had caught his breath, and though his limbs were like butter, he was just about ready to try anything. "Alright," he said slowly. We'll give it a go. Whatever happens, sir, I am in your debt." He gripped the chain as directed and waded into the dark, swirling water with a shiver. **Almighty Father, Blessed Son, Sweet Mother of Grace, watch over Thy servant I pray thee...** <><><><><> [GM] The other man precedes you into the river. It's as cold as it was before, and you are shivering violently before you're over your head. Once underwater, the other man pulls himself along vigorously, hand over hand, but you have trouble keeping up. You're on your last reserves already, and just too weak to maintain your grip on the chain, while the icy current pulls at you and your lungs begin to burn. You feel your numb fingers slip, and then you are floating away.... Until the rope tether jerks you to a halt. Your mysterious savior is yanked violently, but holds onto the chain, and keeps going, while you struggle to reach the surface, and can't. Water burns in your throat, and you choke and can do nothing more but allow yourself to be pulled across the river as you feel your lungs flood with water. You've died once already....dying a second time is no more pleasant. You wake up with the other man pushing hard on your stomach, forcing water out of you. You roll over and retch, noticing that infernal buzz still shivering up and down your spine. "Aaarghh!" he sighs, sinking to the ground and leaning against the city wall behind him. "I'm getting too old for this." He leans back, wrapping a soaking wet cloak around himself, which does nothing to warm him, of course. "This would have been so much easier if you could have managed to get killed on THIS side of the Tiber!" <><><><><> Dying a second time wasn't too surprising. Somehow, though, waking up from it was. Valerius gagged and coughed water. "I think... I did. Die on the east bank. The current carried me..." Suddenly his eyes widened as he realized what the other man was saying. "Wait - how did you know!?" The buzzing in his skull screamed at him. He grabbed his head in his hands and whispered, "Sweet Mother of God... what is happening?" <><><><><> [GM] The other man sighs. "All right, let's see how well you react to having it all at once. I usually try that approach to start with. It saves a lot of time, on the rare occasions when it works." "You're immortal. You died for the first time and now you will never grow older. Nothing can kill you permanently, except for losing your head. You'll recover with supernatural speed from all other injuries, not to mention drowning. I'm immortal also, and so was that Goth I left lying on the riverbank. We can sense each other by the buzzing sensation we feel in our spines, when another of our kind is near. You feel it right now, as do I." He coughs, and then stands up. "Why don't you just digest that, for the moment, while we get ourselves inside the city and find a nice warm fire to dry off next to?" <><><><><> "Immortal?" Valerius' eyes glazed. "W... we are all immortal, immortal souls in the Lord." The look on his rescuers' face told Valerius that this was *not* what he meant. He flushed scarlet and looked quickly away. "Immortal flesh? Decapitation? How can such a thing be?" He carefully removed his tunic, wrung it out and pulled it back over his head, considering. Like all inhabitants of the Empire - the Greek-speaking east - Valerius had some knowledge of theology. Theological debate was the pastime of choice, as the myriad heresies of the east clearly demonstrated. But Valerius was staunch in his Orthodoxy. The world he knew was one of God and Christ and the Apostles, and something like these Immortals simply did not fit his cosmology. The enormity of what the man suggested shook Valerius' soul. A terrifying thought siezed the Imperial officer, rending his faith like a maddened bear, but he held his peace. Only his face betrayed the internal struggle. **What if... Jesus... was one of *them*?** As his savior began to move, Valerius staggered to his feet and followed. His eyes were wide as he moved through the night like a man in shock, rudely shod feet squishing with every sodden step. His sinuses throbbed and his breath rattled in his still-congested lungs. The accursed buzz in his head mocked him. Amid the ruins of Rome, Valerius *thought* his faith had been shaken. He had seen love crushed underfoot, he had seen the frailty... the mortality... of Rome the eternal. He had made an oath to a God whose existence he had taken for granted. **But... what if there *is* no God?!** He choked down nausea as the last pillar of his world finally, truly collapsed in ruin. <><><><><> [GM] Your savior's route into the city is like the one he led you on through the countryside; rapid and confusing, and in your already numbed state, you barely realize when you have passed through the city walls and are in Rome proper. He leads you up a poorly-maintained street, with tenament buildings in disarray, towards a more affluent part of the city. "Rome has seen better days," he comments. "There was a time when I'd have dearly loved to see this city razed to the ground, but now Rome is like a defeated old woman...it's just sad to see her like this." "I have a friend who owns a mansion near the Palatine. He's already fled the city, but that leaves his estate at my disposal. We'll rest there, and then discuss your future." <><><><><> Valerius nodded numbly. He was still too shaken to chat, and the effort of keeping up with the other man was pushing him to the limit. <><><><><> [GM] The estate to which the other man leads you was probably once quite impressive, but like the rest of Rome, it's seen better days. There are still a few servants maintaining its upkeep, though, and they recognize your companion, greeting him as "Pilateus". He takes you to a sitting room, and shortly a servant arrives bearing wine. The servant pours some for each of you, and then withdraws. Pilateus takes a long sip, then wipes his mouth. "Drink....you need it. You're looking a bit pale." <><><><><> Murmuring thanks, Valerius took the cup and drank. His movements were as dull as he slumped on the nearest convenient excuse for a seat. His eyes were distant, as vacant and hopeless as a galley slave. After a long moment of silence he looked up. His voice sounded distant, droning mechanically in his ears as he spoke. "I haven't thanked you for saving my life, Pilateus. It was unforgivably rude. I apologize, and I thank you. I am in your debt." He drank again. His head was flooded with questions, but they squeezed from his lips slowly, like tar. "Is Pilateus your real name, or do you only give true names when you're going to kill someone?" He drained off the last draught of wine. The real question kept hammering in his brain. **Is there a God? IS THERE A GOD!?** <><><><><> [GM] Pilaetus waves a hand. "Most of us dislike seeing fledglings get killed before they even know what's happened to them. That Goth should have known better...but then, I've met plenty of Roman and Byzantine immortals who would not hesitate to kill a 'barbarian' fledgling. If you want to repay your debt, remember how I rescued you, and try to show the same regard for other new immortals." He chuckles. "No, Pilaetus is not my real name. It's hard to keep the same name for thousands of years, when the people and language that bestowed that name have vanished. 'Pilaetus' is as real as any other name I've assumed in the last few centuries." He looks at you seriously. "You are going to need to think about your identity, now. How many people saw you die? Anyone important, or credible?" <><><><><> "Everyone. Everyone that matters. My Lord Belisarius put me down with his own hand, and my troops were there." Valerius shook his head, seeing where this conversation was headed. "Not that I have... had... a life to speak of, outside of the army," he chuckled wryly. "I've enemies enough for two lifetimes already." He looked up at Pilaetus with eyes grown misty. "You said... you once hated Rome. You must be old indeed, sir. Tell me... did you walk in Palestine, in the days of Christ?" A tinge of desperation edged his voice. <><><><><> [GM] "That's unfortunate....it means you'll certainly have to let the man you were remain dead, and create a new identity." He is silent for long moments, after you ask your question. "No, I wasn't in Palestine at that time," he replies at last. "I was thoroughly fed up with Rome's domination of the Mediterranean, and I had gone far to the east. I stayed there for several centuries. By the time I returned to the west, Christianity was already entrenched here." He clasps his hands together, regarding you over his steepled fingers. "You are probably a Christian yourself," he says, "and you are wondering if Jesus Christ was an immortal, like us. Which would make rather questionable his status as Savior, and Son of God." He smiles, not unkindly. "Of course that has been discussed amongst immortals, ever since the self-proclaimed Messiah was crucified and the tales of his resurrection began to spread." "I honestly cannot answer your question. Certainly, many of us do believe that Joshua bar-Joseph was simply an immortal with delusions of divinity. But I have never met another immortal who was actually there, anywhere in the region, during the thirty-odd years that your Christ lived. I have definitely never met anyone who claimed to *be* the Christ. So he is something of an enigma, to us as well as to mortals. I stopped believing in gods long ago, but I certainly won't be the one to claim that I know for a fact that Joshua bar-Joseph was *not* the Son of God." "I am sorry that that probably comes as little comfort to you. However..." he pauses. "I think I know someone that *might* be able to ease your mind. There are other immortals who ARE Christians, you see....and this man was one of the first converts. Perhaps he can explain to you how he has maintained his piety, over the centuries." He leans back in his chair. "Ironically enough, he may even be back in Byzantium, this very moment. Had you died there, it might have been him who would have first discovered you." <><><><><> Valerius grimaced slightly when Pilaetus called Constantinople 'Byzantium'. That was the name of the old Greek colony that once stood on the site. Now it was great capitol, rising like a dream of alabaster and purple on the western shore of the Bosporus, thrusting east between the Golden Horn and the Sea of Marmara. Home of the Hippodrome, the Imperial Palace, and the Hagia Sophia, the mighty cathedral which the Emperor was raising to the glory of God and his own renown. The thought of the Hagia brought back a memory which darkened Valerius' face for a moment. It reminded him of a day when he stood before the Patriarch himself under the unfinished dome, with.... He pushed the thought away. Too painful. "Yes." The light began to shine in Valerius eyes again. It was just a glimmer, but it was there. "I will go to Constantinople, but I cannot abandon my duty. I must find a way to help my Lord Belisarius, even if I cannot come to him openly. He is my mentor. My friend." Valerius chuckled. "Of course, Antoninia is probably just as pleased to have me dead. I'm sure she has already penned a note to the Empress, congratulating themselves on the demise of yet another petty thorn in their sides." He looked up at Pilaetus. "I have a debt to you now, as well. You said that I should show kindness to fledgelings such as you showed me, and you have my promise on that. Still, I cannot count the debt paid until I have done you some service that you value as much as I value life." A ghost of a smile spread over Valerius' lips. "So you see, friend Pilaetus, I am caught already in a web of obligation that cannot be easily broken. Duty has kept me alive since I left for Italia. Now it will keep me here until my duty to Belisarius is discharged and my debt to you repaid." <><><><><> [GM] Pilaetus smiles wistfully. "I do not wish to seem ungracious, but I rather doubt there is much you can do for me, at least right now. If I desired vast amounts of wealth and power, I assure you I could have both with little difficulty. You aren't likely to have any skills that would be useful to me...or that I do not already possess with many more centuries of experience than you. I really am not looking for indebtedness. It is simply the way among our kind....elder immortals teach and guide new ones, until they are capable of surviving on their own. Then you go your own way, and hopefully remain on cordial terms with your mentor, and someday there may indeed be a time when you can do me a favor or two...but there is no immediacy." He chuckles faintly. "We have centuries in which to repay debts to one another." His look becomes sharper. "I'm not sure there is anything you can do for Belisarius, either. Immortal or not, neither of us will count for much in the defense of Rome, on our own. Just another pair of defenders, albeit defenders who can probably kill far more than our fair share of Goths. Not that I have any great desire to do so...understand, I have come to terms with this city, and even harbor a certain amount of sentimental regard for it, but I have no particular quarrel with the Goths. I have seen barbarians sweep over the so-called 'civilized world' over and over again....this era's barbarians are the next era's city-builders, facing in turn their threat of incursion by the *next* people from beyond their borders..." He stops, looks at you, and sighs, then chuckles dryly. "Forgive me, this is not what you want to hear. I am sure Rome and the Empire means a great deal to you. When you've lived as long as I have, it becomes much harder to maintain any affinity for such a transitory thing as an empire or a religion." He steeples his fingers again. "From my experience- I have seen more than a few sieges- I'd say the Goths have an even chance of taking Rome before your Emperor gets around to sending reinforcements. I strongly suspect that even if they do take the city, the Empire will eventually retake it yet again. The Goths aren't strong enough to break the Byzantine Empire....it is not this empire's turn to fall, yet." "So, what say we remain here long enough to see how the siege will end? If you are determined to fight along with the defenders, you will have to take precautions, neither to be seen by anyone who knew you, or to be seen taking a wound and then getting up again afterwards. I would really recommend against direct involvement in the battle." He snaps his fingers. "There are many artworks, ancient writings, other treasures, still held here in the city. And I happen to know more than a few secret hiding places, and ways to get in and out of the city. Would you be content to take steps to preserve what we can of Rome's cultural antiquities, in case the Goths do break down the walls?" "We could also plan a possible escape for your commander....though that will take more work, particularly if we are to avoid bringing you face to face with him again. But Belisarius is a remarkable man, and there are few such men nowadays. I wouldn't mind trying to preserve his life a little while longer." <><><><><> Contemplating action suited Valerius far more than bemoaning a fate he could not comprehend, let alone deal with. Questions of Christ's divinity and what to do for eternity were eagerly brushed aside in favor of pragmatic considerations. Valerius leaned forward, intent on his savior. "If you do not require my aid just now, Pilaetus, I must do all I can for my Lord Belisarius. I certainly would not see the art mauled by these barbarians - I have read what the Vandals did to Rome. I will aid you in this. But I *must* aid my lord in more tangible fashion, somehow." He drummed his fingers on the wine cup in his hand. "I think preparing an escape route would be futile. Belisarius would never abandon his troops. I'd have to reach my lord through his Hypaspists and knock him on the skull - highly unlikely, were I as old as Methuselah and as strong as yourself. If I could scout like you do I know just what I'd do for him - I'd gather intelligence and pass it to him through some third party." He looked up at Pilaetus, considering. "I cannot ask you to do anything for Belisarius, of course. But I know of Belisarius' preparations for the siege - by the Virgin, I directed most of them myself! He intends to set water wheels across the Tiber under the Pons Aurelius, both to block a riverborne assault and to provide power to grind corn. There is enough grain planted in the city to feed the populace for ten years! My chief concern is that the Goths may mount an overwhelming assault at some weak point - they have little siegecraft, from what I've heard." As he spoke, Valerius grew animated. "Forgive me, friend Pilaetus, but I'm merely saying I see a long siege. Would you consider teaching me something of your woodcraft? I know I can never be as good as you in the weeks or months ahead... but perhaps I can become good enough to risk scouting for my lord." He set his jaw grimly. "I suppose that means encountering that Herul again. Possibly others, if the Goths *have* other Immortals. But then, if the walls *are* breached I'll have to go to my Lord's defense, whatever the risk. Do you know of the Herul, Pilaetus? Would I stand a chance against him, properly armed? I may be a fledgeling, but I'm no fool. I've no wish to lose my head just yet." <><><><><> [GM] [Since I made a mistake earlier in confusing a tribe name with a region, please omit the references to "Herul"....the NPC immortal in question is in fact an Ostrogoth and would not have claimed to be a Herul.] "Woodscraft I can teach you, though this is a particularly hazardous time and place to be skulking about in the woods." Pilaetus sips his wine. "There are many other things I must teach you as well. There are ancient traditions that our kind must observe, without exception. There are rules we must follow. And you will want to know how to choose your battles." He smiles ironically. "In fact, by some lights, I was bending the rules a bit by saving you. That Goth claimed he had already engaged you in a duel. I chose to see it differently." "I don't know him. Never encountered him before, so most likely he's not extremely old, though he could still have a couple of centuries on you. His fighting skill was fair, not exceptional...for an immortal. More than a match for most mortals. Which means unless you are already an exceptional swordsman, you're probably better off avoiding him if possible." "Since I haven't spent any time among the Goths, I can't say how many immortals might be among them. Undoubtedly there are, or have been, other Goth immortals besides our friend Petres, but whether two or more of them would get along well enough to both join this army without falling upon each other first, I don't know." <><><><><> Valerius nodded. "Well then. It certainly seems that I have a lot to learn. When I gave my troops orders, I usually asked them to hold their questions until I was finished; that way I didn't have to repeat myself." He managed a wan smile at his new mentor. "I begin to sense repetition in your words. I hear, 'it is a dangerous time for you, Valerius, and you should step carefully.' Clearly I do not understand just how dangerous. Like any decent commander, not knowing the ground worries me." He sat back, draining his cup. "Therefore, I should likewise allow you to teach what you will, and save my questions until the end. Then, perhaps, I shall have a chance to aid my Lord Belisarius - if not in this campaign, then perhaps for the next. Something tells me the Goths will not have him this time." He looked ruefully at his sodden, torn tunic. "If it's not too much to ask, might I get out of these wet things? I want to keep the tunic, but it'll never be fit to wear again." **If I am ever fit to serve my God and my Empire again.** Valerius couldn't shake the vague feeling that he was abandoning his duty, somehow. <><><><><> [GM] "Certainly, there should be fresh clothes in that closet, and the bath is still functional, though I am not sure if the servants have kept the water heated." Pilaetus rises. "Get some rest, you have had a lot to endure and then digest today. Tomorrow, we will begin your training." <><><><><> "Thank you, master Pilaetus. Cold water doesn't worry me after tonight, and probably never will again." Valerius arose and did as he was bade. Lying abed, alone in the dark, the questions of faith and duty came hounding him again. Valerius tossed and turned, and finally dropped off into a fitful sleep, plagued by images of a bloody Belisarius and an empty cross that loomed over him, plunging him into shadow.