The Flame of Destiny
Meanwhile in Britannia

Caledonia, North of Antonine wall

“Slave! Hand me my caracalla,” snorted the arrogant young man. He wore a purple shirt over his brightly polished lorica segmentata armor.

“Yes, sire,” said the boy meekly as he searched for Emperor Caracalla’s signature hooded cloak.

“Hurry up or these bastards will start without me,” he growled. After putting on the cloak, he marched out of his imperial tent and entered his father’s even larger imperial tent where the officers had gathered for another crisis meeting.

“Augustus, the situation is desperate,” said the legate that commanded the Caledonian legion, “we barely have any water and are running out of food. We lose too many men foraging in this terrain. The savages are everywhere.”

As soon as the last tower of the Antonine wall was out of sight, the trouble had started thought Caracalla. They had entered the ‘trackless wilds’ of Caledonia and were surrounded by wildlings whose only knowledge of Roman civilization was from nightly plundering raids in the towns or oppida near their lands.

The Roman army was large and well-equipped. They had gathered four full legions, veterans from wars along the Rhine. There were ferocious Germans and belligerent Gauls. There was even a contingent of Sarmatians, deadly efficient mounted archers recruited from the steppes on the other side of the empire. Ideal soldiers, strong, agile, ruthless and - because they were so far from their homeland - loyal only to the gold of Rome. Septimus preferred fighting savages with more ruthless savages.

“Last night we lost another supply train to these brutes,” continued the legate.

With such overwhelming force lined up against them, the cowardly Caledonians would never attack, thought Caracalla. They’ll only harass the rearguard and ambush our scouts and foragers. As soon as we send in the Sarmatians for a blistering counter-attack, they disappear into the vast wilderness. Here in the Caledonian highlands, every tree can hide an archer, every hill is a spot for an ambush and every forest hides an entire army.

Caracalla had understood this a long time ago. Did the astrologer in Alexandria not warn him about just that? These people can’t be subdued with conventional means. When will father finally get it?

Septimius Severus, the Emperor of Rome, and father of Caracalla, was the only person seated in the large tent. Sweat dropped from his forehead and he wiped it off with a piece of cloth. “I know Lucius,” he said, “but the new causeway through the marshes will give us better access to the food supplies of the towns to the south. From there good Roman roads run to the ports where the Egyptian grain ships dock. This should help.” He addressed another legate, “how’s the road construction going?”

Was this really the ‘imperator’ that defeated four rivals to the throne in a civil war, thought Caracalla? Was he the only one that saw this old man for what he was, just an old man standing in the way of a more vigorous and capable son?

“We’re making good progress, Sire, we’ve already built two sections,” replied the legate in charge of construction, “in two months the road will be ready and we will be able to transport a hundred carts of grain a day.”

“Two months,” protested Lucius, “we don’t have two months. My men die in droves.”

“It’s hard work,” said the other legate. “We’re two hundred miles from the nearest friendly port and we’ve got to bring everything in by the slow road. There’s nothing we can use here. The trees are small and gnarled, the local blacksmiths can’t even make proper nails. Caledonia is a wild land, full of deep marshes, and dark forests. Not to mention all these wild barbarians that you don’t manage to keep away with your legions. They distract us from building the causeway, we have to build watchtowers and palisades. Two months is really the best I can do.”

“In two months, I want this campaign to be over,” said Caracalla, rudely interrupting the discussion, “then I’ll be back in Rome enjoying the bathhouse with a slave woman on my knee.”

Only one young officer laughed, the others glared at him in disbelief.

“How are you going to do that, Lord Caesar,” asked the legate incredulously.

Caracalla felt a flash of anger. There was a tone of disrespect in the voice of this lowly legate and he hated to be addressed by the lesser title of Caesar. “Certainly not like this,” he replied sharply, “all those bridges and fortresses, that’s madness. It’s taking too long. And for what? This will still be a wilderness for a thousand years. We have to strike swiftly and without mercy. We split our army in three. One follows the coast, a second one ten miles inland and we send our Sarmatian cavalry in a wide circle over these so-called highlands. We storm their hill forts, we ravage their farms, pillage their towns and kill their people. If they resist, we surround their troops and annihilate them. And all the while we burn and destroy. We burn their crops, we burn their woodlands. Within a week, their leaders will come to us on their knees and beg for mercy.”

“Splitting our army is a big risk,” Septimius Severus said sternly, “we could lose everything.”

“If we wait, we’ll definitely lose everything,” snapped Caracalla, “what has Rome ever gained by being slow and cautious?”

Septimius’ face hardened, he wasn’t used to deal with opposition, not even from his son. “Leave us alone,” he said icily, without taking his eyes off Caracalla. “We proceed as planned,” he added to be clear.

The legates and officers quickly vacated the imperial tent, leaving only the two emperors, father and son, and a couple of Praetorian guards.

Caracalla briefly eyed the imposing guards. They were so tall they had to look down on him with their stone-cold killer eyes. Despite the cold weather, their arms were bare showing their thick muscles and expressive tattoos of wolves and bears. I should really get some of these tough blonde warriors for my retinue, he thought.

“Father,” said Caracalla, “a more aggressive, direct strategy isn’t only more Roman, but it will also bring success. If we burn their farms and kill their people, we destroy everything they have. They’ll surrender before winter.”

The emperor stood up from his chair, heaving and puffing.

[Picture Caracalla and Septimus]

“Why don’t you return to Rome,” asked Caracalla coldly, “and leave the campaign to me? Your illness affects your judgment and your dignity as a leader.”

“Son, we’re no longer discussing this campaign.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve given my instructions to the legates. They’ll do what I order them to do. And listen carefully. Never question me again in front of my officers! I’m the first emperor, the Augustus.”

“I don’t have time for a lecture about my duties,” said Caracalla shaking his head. “I’ve better things to do.” He turned around, getting ready to leave.

“Stay!” Septimius commanded.

Caracalla slowly turned back to face his father, his face utterly bored.

“There’s more we need to discuss,” Septimius sighed, “I may not be around forever. I want to talk about the future, about you and your brother.”

“There’s nothing to discuss about my brother, Geta is an incapable idiot, he can run the stables when I’m Augustus”

Septimius sighed. “He’s your brother nonetheless and shares your blood. It’s time that you learn to get along.”

Caracalla rolled his eyes. “With that piece of dog shit?”

Septimius sighed again but then his jaw tightened. He was no longer a wrinkled old man but briefly became the powerful emperor that took the purple throne and prevented the collapse of the Empire. “I have decided to appoint Geta as co-emperor and you will show him respect!” he ordered.

“What!” roared Caracalla furiously, “that’s a terrible idea! I can be co-emperor with you because you’re an old man about to expire. But Geta is young. Do you want to split the empire?”

“No! On the contrary. I want you to work together,” he said, “the Empire is too big to be ruled by one man. You can finish the campaign in Britannia and then quell the uprising in Alemannia. Your brother Geta can focus on the east and prepare for a war with Parthia.”

“I’ll never give him the east,” said Caracalla, “never in my life. The east is what it’s all about. Here we’re just fighting primitives, there’s nothing. But the east has wealth and glory, culture, and beautiful women. Everything of value is there and I won’t give it to Geta.”

“The east is not yours to give,” remarked Septimius dryly.

“You can’t send Geta east,” insisted Caracalla, “he will have himself butchered by the Parthians. You don’t want a new Carrhae! I’m the one who has to go east. I’m the better commander. The soldiers love me.”

“But, Geta…” stammered Septimius.

“When I go, I’ll go as a conqueror,” said Caracalla undisturbed, “I will do better than you did. I’ll follow in the footsteps of Alexander the Great. I’ll plunder the cities from Ctesiphon to Babylon and Susa and even Bactra. I’ll slaughter their men and enslave their women. I’ll go further than Alexander, we won’t just plunder the lands, we’ll annex them and turn them into proper provinces. I’ll make Rome great and feared again!”

Severus got up and raised his voice. “Son! Listen to me. I know your ambitions, they’ve been brewing for a long time. But I’m not here to negotiate, I’ve made up my mind. The order has been dispatched already and ratified by the Senate. Geta will rule as Augustus in the east and that’s final!”

“We’ll see about that,” said Caracalla and he stormed out of the tent.

Septimius fell back on his chair, coughing heavily and his chest heaving. “Bring me some wine,” he stammered.

Caracalla strode back into his own imperial tent which was packed with servants, bodyguards, councilors, and musicians.

“Everybody out!” he shouted, “Servius, you stay!”

When everyone had left, a small gray-haired man stood trembling in the center of an almost empty tent.

“My brother will be co-emperor,” said Caracalla with subdued anger.

Servius looked at him in surprise.

“You didn’t see this coming!” shouted Caracalla.

“Please sir, reading the stars is difficult,” replied the trembling astrologer who feared for his livelihood, “your father is very unpredictable.”

Caracalla threw the astrologer’s wooden table to the ground. Rolls of parchment and instruments flew through the tent. “I should have brought that Alexandrian with me,” he said, “at least he had half a brain. He would have warned me even if the stars hadn’t shown it.”

“He would never have come,” replied Servius, “he’s a stubborn donkey.”

“I’m Emperor, you wretched slave! I’m Caesar Augustus! My wish is an order. My command is divine! I have ways to convince people,” replied Caracalla, “anyway, it’s too late now.”

“What are you going to do?” Servius asked in a trembling voice.

“Speaking of stubborn donkeys,” Caracalla continued sarcastically, “what do the stars say about my father? I suggested him to go back to Rome. His illness is only getting worse. What do you expect in Britannia, with terrible weather and horrible food? No Roman would be surprised if he collapsed one day.”

“I just looked at his stars,” said Servius excitedly. He smelled an opportunity to make amends.

Caracalla continued talking to himself and paced up and down the room. “I would dare say that if he finally perishes, death would be merciful after all his suffering. It’s better for a man to die at the peak of his power before terminal mental decline sets in. It would be welcomed all over the Empire because they know his weakness. The soldiers will be happy, and that’s all that really. They need a real commander. Somebody that understands them, somebody that eats their food and shares their hardships. Somebody that stands with them in the shield wall… Mmm. perhaps not in the front ranks but certainly not far behind and they certainly don’t need someone that is carried around in a litter! They need a man that knows how to deal with these barbarians and knows no mercy for the enemy!”

He looked at Servius who was nodding fervently. “They need somebody like me!”

Caracalla suddenly looked his trusted slave in the eyes. He continued in a soft voice, almost a whisper, “but alas, he will never voluntarily leave. So tell me, what did the stars say about Septimius Severus and his dreadful, stubborn illness?”

“Well, the signs are vague but it seems that something terrible could happen to him within a year or two,” whispered the astrologer, “it might even mean his death. That’s not surprising, after all he’s already quite ill.”

“Are you sure of this?”

“Well Sire,” whispered Servius, “there are ways, eh… to be more sure. There are certain measures we can take that expedite his inevitable destiny. I know of certain herbs…”

Caracalla pretended not to hear. “There’s nothing in the world that would make me sadder,” he said, his eyes moist with tears.

“Still,” he paused, “It pains my heart to say this but I think it would be a good thing for the Empire.”

“Do you want me to…”

Caracalla interrupted him brusquely, “you know what to do. Your duty is to Rome and to me. Never forget that!”

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