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Res Publica: A Quest of Ancient Rome

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XXV: The Mithridatic Wars, Turn III: Roma Invicta
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    • [X] Plan Foundations for future success
    -[x] Make Connections: The patriarchs of Sardis are always eager to make friends with young Roman tribunes, for young Roman tribunes often become young Roman governors, and it is always a pleasure to have a friend in high places.
    -[x] The City of Brotherly Love: The Sardisians claim that their rivals, the city of Philadelphia, induced Mithridates to sack Sardis, and indeed threw open their gates to the conquerors. Philadelphia is on Marius' route, and has no walls -- it would be an easy thing to sack it. You could make the request on behalf of the Sardisians. Philadelphia is wealthy enough, and sacking it might make you both friends and coin.
    -[X] The Servants of the Sun: The priests of Apollo at the Temple in nearby Pergamon are well-trained in the art of prophecy, and deliver many hundreds of prophecies a year. You could ask one of them to interpret it. They are quite overworked, however, serving much of Asia Minor, and a reply will take some weeks. (High chance of positive modifiers, Prophecy will be interpreted normally, will take 2 turns to be delivered back)
    -[X] The Mercenary: Herakleo is lean, gnarled, and brown like a nut from years of fighting and dying in other people's wars. Remembering your good experience with Veniximaeus, you attempt to strike up a conversation with him and his men.

    The Mithridatic War (88 BC - Ongoing)
    Your second campaign, you were immediately reassigned along with the VI legion under the consul Scipio Asiaticus to reinforce the armies of Marius, who had experienced a crippling betrayal in his asiatic campaign against the Pontic King Mithridates.

    Legion(s): LEGIO VI GRADIVIUS (Sixth Legion, Blessed By Mars)
    Position: Tribunus Laticlavus (Broad-Striped Tribune)
    Commanding Officer: Gaius Marius
    Commanding Officer Reputation (Scipio): 6/10 -- Scipio Cassianus is bold, brave, and strong of arm. The men have taken a shine to him.
    Total Forces: 5,600 combined Roman legionnaires, equites, and auxilaries.
    Commanding Officer Reputation (Marius): 10/10 -- He is Marius. The Third Founder. The Hero of Rome. Nothing more need be said, for even his enemies would fill with pride to serve under him.
    Green/Veteran Split: 7 Average, 2 Skilled, 1 Elite
    Reputation With The Legion: 9/10 -- The legion loves you, and sees you as their master. You are their brother, their leader, their hero. They would die for you.
    Superstition: 4/10
    Location: Asia Minor
    Outcome: ???

    ​

    March 17th, 84 BC
    670 Years After The Founding Of Rome
    The Year of Asiaticus and Cinna.

    Since before the time of Alexander, Asia has been the battleground of empires. The Macedonians, the Persians, and now the Romans have all struggled and warred and bled over this land in years past, even as you and yours do now. And conflict, above all things, breeds mercenaries as corpses breed flies. The wars of Alexander the Great's successors heralded a new age of sellswords, when the best and brightest soldiers of the Mediterranean made their way to Macedon and Phyrgia to kill and be killed for coin. The Romans have not shied from this practice -- far from it. Indeed, Greek mercenaries rode with Scipio against Hannibal, and later helped Rome conquer their own peoples one by one.

    The man Herakleo, who commands the mercenaries now under Marius, is but the latest and last of a long line in this Attic tradition, a warrior who first learned of war under Mithridates, and now fight against him for Roman coin. The warriors who follow him originate from across the Hellenic world -- peltasts from Tarentum, Epirote hoplites, and Trapezuntine horsemen. Some hail from even further beyond, in the far-flung corners of world where Alexander left Greeks scattered in his wake like leaves in the wind.

    All of these disparate origins are reflected in the mercenaries' camp, which they have thrown up outside the city walls of Sardis. It is a melting pot of a half-dozen accents and peoples, and the variety within is startling to your Roman eyes -- you see men pale as northern snow and men dark as Persian bronze, some bearded and some not, some shaven bald as children and others hairy all over. All, however, speak Greek, and walk with the self-assured pride of the Hellenes.

    You have spent your last few days in Sardis hobknobbing and making connections with the publicani and public officials of the city, but you have tired of the endless currying of favor and the back-and-forth of the political bantering so common to men of wealth. Today, you have chosen to meet instead with the mercenary, Herakleo, at this great camp of his. Instead of the mercenary himself, however, you are met on the outskirts of the camp by a small curly-haired youth, perhaps ten or eleven years old. Wordlessly, he beckons you forth, then turns and vanishes into the nest of mercenary tents. Lacking any other readily apparent choice, you follow him. Your tiny guide leads you silently through the thick and weedlike cluster of the mercenary camp, all the way up to a large tent where the chaos simply...stops. All the other tents hang back from it by at least a foot, and the men walking around it give it a respectful berth. Even your guide hangs back, ushering you forward with a tilt of his small head. You gather yourself, and pass into the tent.

    Herakleo waits inside, looming upon a wide couch and attended by a throng of slaves. You have glimpsed the mercenary from afar, in battle, but up close and personal, he is a sight to behold. He is a toppling tower of a man, a great red mountain of muscle and flesh and jungled hair that rises half a foot above your head while still seated. Two coal-black eyes stare intensely at you from a head lined and matted with dozens upon dozens of scars, some old, some new, and others never-healed. His ruined face bristles with a great black beard, behind which his remaining teeth flash like white daggers when he speaks. He reminds you uncomfortably of an illustration in a scroll you once saw long ago. It depicted one of the great old giants of ancient Greece, whom it is said made war upon the gods.

    This man, you think, could make war upon the gods. By the look of him, perhaps he has.

    "Ah," the giant booms, "the Roman." He speaks with a thick, slow accent that you cannot quite place, one which forces you to sit and wait while the words drop like dinnerplates from his lips.

    He beckons with a plate-sized hand to one of the soft chairs tossed up around his tent, and you find a seat, feeling uncomfortably small.

    Herakleo gestures to one of his women, who presses a cup of wine into your hands.

    "You fight well, boy. Take that as the compliment it is."

    You open your mouth to reply, but the giant's voice cuts off your own.

    "Do you know why I allowed you this audience?" The big man reclines in his chair, his eyes studying yours.

    Gathering yourself, you take a sip of wine. You think you have the measure of him now, and take your time replying. Mercenaries are proud men. Let any man lead armies around long enough, and he begins to get ideas about his station. Time to remind him who he serves.

    "Are you a king, to allow audiences with Rome? I asked to break words with you because, as Marius' tribune-"

    "No." Again, he cuts you off, and you scowl into your cup. "I allowed you here. I brought you into my camp and my tent. Your world, Roman, ends where mine begins. I will take your coin, but I do not serve you, and I do not grovel at your feet. No man is master to Herakleo. Not Marius, and certainly not you, whelpling. Romans grow arrogant young, it seems."

    "It would seem Greeks are born with it," you snipe back.

    There is a long silence, and then the black beard parts, and the great molars flash white. "The last Roman I said that to half pissed himself on the spot."

    "A poor Roman, then." Your voice is quite confident, though a small part of your mind quietly notes that the mercenary could fit your entire skull into one of his paws and have room left over.

    The massive sellsword's eyes' narrow. "Marius, it seems, is the most arrogant of the lot."

    Your reply is simple. "It is earned. He is Marius."

    "Earned or not, I will not lead my men to pointless deaths. I have heard something of what happens in Rome. Your people make war on each other, and even mighty Marius is not unopposed -- there is another, in the west. He sacks the great cities and puts their princes to the sword. The fortune of your brother-war is in Marius' favor now, but I wonder what happens if it turns? Or if Marius himself should fall? He is old, I hear, and growing older, and must now make war on two fronts."

    Alarm spikes through you. "You would turn to other masters, then?" Herakleo commands a not-insignificant portion of your troops. If he should turn to Mithridates or Sulla...

    The mercenary is quiet a long moment. "Herakleo watches. And he considers."

    "Watch that you consider wisely. There are many masters in Asia now, but soon there will only be one, and he will remember who aided him in victory, and who 'considered' a moment too long."

    There is a sound like thunderclaps bursting. After a moment, you realize Herakleo is chuckling. "Fine advice, little Roman. Mind you heed it yourself."

    He claps his great hands, and you think your airdrums might burst. "Fret not. While the Egyptian's coin remains, so shall Herakleo." As if he has come to a decision, the mercenary rises to his feet waving you towards the door. Your breath falters for a moment as you take in the full height of the man, but you rise to meet him in a clasp of hands. His great fist entirely envelops your own, and his light squeeze perhaps pops a tendon.

    "My son will guide you back to the city. Until we meet again, whelpling."

    You make your own shaking farewells, then exit the tent.

    The small silent boy waits outside, grinning.


    Making Connections: 1d20+2 (Accomplished Charisma) +1 (Gift of Minerva) = 16
    Needed: 8
    Meeting Herakleo: 1d20+2 (Accomplished Charisma) + 1 (Gift of Minerva) = 13
    Needed: 11

    ​

    March 20th, 84 BC
    670 Years After The Founding Of Rome
    The Year of     Asiaticus and Cinna.

    Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, was founded some hundred years ago by a king of Pergamon in honor of his brother, who was his most loyal supporter and ally. Pergamon became a client state of Rome, and later a city of Roman Asia, but the Philadelphians never forgot their ancient roots, and their love for their brother Greeks. When Mithridates came, they rose up as one to overthrow their Roman masters. The bloodbath which followed lasted seven days and nights, and when it was over, not a single one of the hundreds of Romans who had lived in the city drew breath. Mamercus Vidianus, the Roman governor of Philadelphia, was the last to die, strangled in the town square by the fathers of the city, who then declared that the Philadelphians would never be slaves again.

    It is an act you might almost call brave, were it not committed against Rome.

    Philadelphia has no walls -- it has never needed them, for it is brother to all around it. When the Philadelphians see the spears of the Romans shining on the hills above their city, they send an envoy, a boy of fifteen, to plead terms with Marius. The city fathers wish a bloodless peace, he says. They will freely give up their silver and precious things -- he need only spare the city.

    Marius laughs in the boy's face. The laughter is cruel, and there is no mercy in it, or in him. Philadelphia is unwalled and defenseless, absent soldiers or friends. They have no standing to make terms -- this is the last ploy of desperate men. Marius sends the boy back without tongue or eyes, bearing his reply on a scroll: Rome does not break words with traitors. The city fathers, the great elders of Philadelphia, will surrender themselves to him by nightfall, along with all their sons, or Philadelphia will burn as Athens now burns. They send no response, but a short hour after Marius issues his ultimatum, a procession of grey-bearded men files out of the city, their eyes noble and proud. Beside them are their sons, strong and young, the future of their city.

    Marius has their sons strangled, one by one, as Vidianus was strangled. It takes hours. Some are boys as young as twelve, others men in their prime. Many are as old as you. It is not an easy sight to watch, even for soldiers with years of war behind them, and you avert your eyes many times. One Tribune retches, though you all pretend not to notice.

    After the deed is done, Marius forces their fathers to crucify the corpses at swordpoint, and has them raised along the main road to the city, as warning to all who might stand now or ever against Rome -- or against Marius, though that need not be said aloud. When they are done, he forces the elders to kneel in the same city square where they strangled Vidianus and swear oaths of fealty to Rome. Their backs are slumped, and their eyes, so proud mere hours ago, are heavy with the weight of fathers who have outlived their sons. He forces one in every ten citizens of the city into servitude, and strips their coffers bare. Those who he suffers to remain will survive only on the mercy of Rome. Marius proclaims that the Philadelphians will be slaves, for so long as Rome wills it.

    The City of Brotherly Love, it will be said in these parts for long after, asked Marius for a bloodless peace -- and received it.

    That afternoon, Marius stands before his legions on a makeshift podium assembled from the gathered spoils of Philadelphia. Golden goblets and brassy tablets are scattered at his feet, a shining hoard of stolen treasure that sparkles in the evening sun, which sinks lower beneath the horizon with each passing moment. The red sunlight glints off the stolen gold, casting strange shadows across the crags of Marius' face. Perhaps it is a trick of this curious interplay of light, but Marius does not look much like an old man at the moment. Indeed, you reflect as you stand amid the throng of soldiery, he does not look much like a man at all.

    "My sons," Marius begins, his voice creaking in the wind. "I will not speak overlong. You know I am not fond of public speaking, for the gods have not graced me with skill on the podium. My father labored in the fields, and worked --as I have, and as I do-- with his hands. I was not raised an orator. My childhood, I am ashamed to remind you, was the plow, the hammer and the seed. Unlike those fortunate and better-born, I come from nothing ancient or noble, and my plebian ancestors are not counted among the fathers of our great city. So, when my words seem to you not as fair as those of a Claudius or a Scipio, I ask you to remember that I am only Marius."

    A cry comes from somewhere deep in the crowd behind you. "Better Marius than all the rest!" A great cheer follows, and it is only when it subsides that Marius speaks again, raising his hands in a gesture of humility.

    "And so, as one not born to glory, I never saw, nor dreamed to see, such wealth as is laid before me today. What hope could we simple men of Rome have of the lucre of far great Greece?" He stoops to grasp a thick handful of glittering coins from the bounty at his feet. "Yet here it lies before me, as real and hard and solid as any of you. Our fathers were humble men. They knew their place in the world, which the Gods had seen fit to lay upon them. To the Greeks was given gold and marble and silver and all that is fair. To the Romans was the sword, and that was all their lot."

    He raises a glittering gold coin into the dying sunlight and inspects it for a long moment.

    "The priests will forgive me my blasphemy, my sons, for it seems to me that in this, the gods have erred. For they gave Rome the greater lot, and now she has come for her share of all the rest!" The crowd cheers, but Marius continues, his voice booming over their shouts like a thunderclap, reaching into your chest and seizing your heart. "And what a share it shall be! And this share, it does not belong to the Senate or their cronies! It does not belong to those who are already fat with your wealth and your blood! It does not belong to the merchants or the fleshmen, to the craven or the cowardly! It does not even belong to Marius, for what is Marius but your voice?! It belongs, my brothers, to those who have shed blood and sweat to win it! It belongs to the true sons of Rome!"

    Marius thrusts his arms into the air, pausing a long moment. You cannot speak, and neither can any other man in the crowd. The crowd is rapture-silent. Marius holds your tongues in his grip.

    "It belongs to you, my legions! I give you the wealth of song and story! I give you the golden treasures of Olympus! I give you the lot the gods gave the Greeks, and more still! We shall take the cities of the kings of the Greeks, and bring them low! Stand by me in the days to come, and all this treasure will seem a pittance to what you will inherit by my hand! So swears Marius!"

    He draws his sword, which shines a golden crimson in the sunset, and shoves it into the air. His back is bent no more, and there is nothing tired or mortal about him -- indeed, a part of you thinks, if there is a god of war, he must stand now before you in the flesh. "ROMA INVICTA!"

    The yell which returns from the legions shakes the very hills. Despite yourself, it rips from your throat, and you find yourself chanting in time with fifteen thousand mouths, your voices blending into a primal roar that echoes up to heaven, both challenge and promise, threat and exaltation.

    "ROMA INVICTA! ROMA INVICTA! ROMA INVICTA!"

    ​

    Later that night, you find yourself high up on one of the hills overlooking Philadelphia with Rufus and Cassianus, your fellow Tribunes. The three of you are moving to inspect the final segment of your camp before laying in for the night, but you pause a short moment to take in the view from atop this promontory. Asia is a beautiful land, after all, and it is a beautiful night.

    The moon sits round and crystal-white in the sky, covering the hilltop and the city in an unearthly silver haze. The moon is so bright to be nearly as clear as day. It is so bright, indeed, that you can just glimpse the distant mountainpeaks crawling into the horizon, so bright that you can see the buildings and streets and statues in the city beneath, so cruelly blindingly bright that you can easily make out the thin shape of the road below, along which are raised the dark shapes of the crucified sons of Philadelphia. Mere hours ago, when you raised those same crucifixes in the light of day, when you stood guard over weeping fathers and their dead sons, you felt triumphant, exhilarated, just. Something iron and hard deep inside you felt right. Now, as you look at the bodies white and cold in the moonlight, you do not feel right or just or triumphant. Indeed, all you feel are things you have no name for.

    Rufus, you know without asking, is thinking many of the same things. "It's just occurred to me, Atellus, that we are very very far from home indeed." His voice is soft, as if he is whispering a terrible secret. Rufus often sounds older than his age, but right now he seems very young indeed.

    You nod in silent reply. You always have the right words to say, but you are not quite sure where they have gone.

    You are a Roman. A son of Mars. To you is given the smoke and the sword and the conqueror's gore. You know, of course, that the enemies of Rome made their fates when they stood against the city. They chose this, and you know that as certainly as you know the sun will rise in the morning. All you have stopped to do is take in this beautiful night.

    Still, some of those corpses are so very small.

    Cassianus, at your side, breathes in deeply, as if to say something, then clucks his tongue. Something heavy settles over the three of you, and for a long time no one speaks.

    Suddenly, you feel deeply terribly embarrassed (or, perhaps, ashamed), and clear your throat loudly, shaking the other two men from their reverie. Neither of them will meet your eyes. You do not know if you want to meet theirs. Somehow, you know that wherever you go and whatever you do -- whatever you may become in the days and years ahead --, this long, terrible, quiet moment on a hill in the south of Asia will stay with the three of you forever.

    You feel the overwhelming urge to say something, anything at all, to break the awful silence, and so you do.

    "Roma Invicta."

    VOTING

    The City of Him Who Loves His Brother
    Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love, has fallen without a drop of blood shed. Rome is avenged. Marius, triumphant, has turned his troops upon the city. The Romans have quartered themselves in Philadelphian homes, taken Philadelphian gold, and made the Philadelphians as slaves. As Tribune of the Sixth Legion, it falls to you to quarter and distribute the spoils of the victory. As you do so, you keep in mind that there is only so much to go around, and whoever is not rewarded may feel scorned.
    [] Reward the Equites: The equites, the knightly cavalry under the cavalry prefect Gnaeus Cornelius Dolabella, have grown more and more tense in recent weeks. Noblemen of ancient ancestry and famed blood, they chafe like a bad boot under Marius' heel. They are not deaf or blind or dumb, and so have not missed the rising populism in Marius' speeches, or the growing aggression towards them from the common infantrymen. They walk the camps in packs now, great clusters of ten or more men, ostensibly to protect themselves from plebian aggression. Something in their faces reminds you of the uncertain, tense moments before a pot boils over. You apportion them a greater share of the spoils, to lessen the tension.
    [] Reward the Infantry: The plebian legionnaires, those men of Roman earth and salt whom Marius so exalts, are almost giddy with excitement. They are led by great tribunes and a great general and have been triumphant in their first great battle between proper armies, not upjumped Samnites or slaves. They are exhilarated, and fully expect a greater share of the loot that Marius so eagerly promised them in his rousing speech. They would not hate you if it was witheld, surely, but they might sour.
    [] Reward the Officers: The camp officers, the prefects, even the other Tribunes -- these men have served finely and with distinction these last months, from Samnium to Sardis, and deserve reward. The officers range from plebian to patrician, so there is no class divide here, merely one of rank. There are, you are well aware, men with decades of seniority in the legions who, unlike the centurions Pompolussa and Carcellus, do not appreciate being placed under boys years their younger. Some coin might soften their harsh feelings on the matter, you imagine.
    [] Reward the Legion: You try to reward everyone equally, but there is not an equal amount to go around. Some will get more and some will get less, it is the way of things. You will try to use your skill for coin to apportion things as fairly as possible, and if that fails, perhaps your charisma will be enough to paper over the cracks.

    The Battle of the Maeander
    The scouts have returned from the south with news -- the Pontic commanders Poleon and Cygenus have heard of the fall of Sardis. They make north with a force of 30,000 in search of Marius' army, likely seeking confrontation. They seem not to have realized, however, that Philadelphia too has fallen, and that Marius is nearer than they believe. The general has not communicated the intricate details of his plan to you, but from the general rumors circulating around the officers' mess, and from your own analysis of the situation, it seems that he plans to fall upon the Greeks as they cross the Maeander River a short few miles' march to the south of Philadelphia. It is a tactically sound decision -- caught unawares with a river at their backs, the Pontics may well be crushed, delivering all of southern Asia to Marius. It is a good plan, and even if it was not, Marius is not the type of man to heed a boy's word on such things. No, all you can do is prepare your troops --and yourself-- for the days and battles to come.

    Pick Three

    [] Run Drills: Over the next few days, you gather with Cassianus in the dim pre-dawn outside the city to run your troops through your paces. It would do well for you and him to be better prepared to work together, and for your troops to be well-oiled come the fight.
    [] Gather The Cult: The day before you are set to march, you assemble the legionary Cult of Mars. While Marius will hold his own augury before the battle, that does not mean that you and the officers sworn to the service of the Red God cannot hold a sacrifice of your own to seek benediction from your patron.
    [] Assemble The Officers: Your legion's lifeblood is it's centurions, it's prefects and it's soldiers. Making sure they work well together and can improvise in the heat of battle is important. You will do something unorthodox and spend several hours a day drilling the officers alone.
    [] Requisition Rations: It might cost some silver out of your own pocket, but you pay to have enough food gathered out of the city to treat your men to a better breakfast than to which they are generally used. They might die soon, after all.
    [] Run Cavalry Drills: The cavalry is exactly as important as they pride themselves on being. The deadly italic horsemen have won many a battle that seemed lost, and as your cavalry mostly sat out the battle at Sardis, you want them in particular well-oiled and ready for the coming combat. As well, it never hurts to ingratiate yourself with the Cavalry prefect, Dolabella.
    [] Reconnoiter The Battlefield: Though Marius is no doubt doing this himself, you send some of your fastest riders to ride around the likeliest crossing points of the Maeander and get the lay of the land. In a pitched battle like the one which likely awaits you, knowing the lay of the land might be very valuable.
    [] Ask Around: You send some troops to interview the local villages and towns about the general layout of the lands near the Maeander for anything which could be advantageous or useful in the coming fight.
    [] Break Bread With Marians: You sit down and try to get to know the other commanding officers of the other two legions. These legates and tribunes are very influential and powerful men, not to mention your fellow commanders on the battlefield. It cannot hurt to work better with them.
    [] Spar: It might seem almost an afterthought, but you are only a tribune, no Legate or Marius. You will be on the battlefield yourself, and you will need to kill with your own two hands. A great battle like the one coming might last hours, or even a full day. You should make sure your body is ready for the test.
    [] Meet With Marius: You are quite intelligent, but that does not mean you are smart. Despite yourself, you use what influence and clout you have to try and force your way into Marius' inner circle and consult with him on his greater strategy. It is quite unlikely you will gain entry, or that if you do you will be allowed to offer your own ideas on a plan designed and devised by Marius himself. Most commanders, truth be told, would see it as insolence and insubordination. Marius, you have heard, rewards initiative, and perhaps still does.
    [] Rest: You have been marching for days, and the life of a tribune is busy and hectic. It dawns upon you that you have not had a proper night's sleep in quite a while. Perhaps you should get one for a few days.



    Author's Note: Res Publica is Back.
    Author's Note: Res Publica now has a Discord! Come join in and ask me questions about obscure Roman military history.
    Author's Note: I now have a     Patreon! Any donations would be greatly appreciated.    ​



    There is now a TWENTY-FOUR HOUR MORATORIUM on all votes.

    Use this time to discuss the choices available and create different Plans. As previously discussed, any votes not in plan form, or submitted before the moratorium is up, will not be counted.

    As always,     discussion is rewarded    . (As are Omakes and Reaction posts.)
     
  • Threadmarks
    • This lives huzzah! Now with that out of the way I say we give a greater share to the nobles in our legion just to help ease there worries.
     
    To be honest, I don't really remember much about this quest other than my vaguely calling for a theocracy by leading a cult army to Mars and some other goddess to take control of the republic. It's great that this has updated though!
     
    []A Reminder of Rome
    [] Reward the Legion: You try to reward everyone equally, but there is not an equal amount to go around. Some will get more and some will get less, it is the way of things. You will try to use your skill for coin to apportion things as fairly as possible, and if that fails, perhaps your charisma will be enough to paper over the cracks.

    [] Run Drills: Over the next few days, you gather with Cassianus in the dim pre-dawn outside the city to run your troops through your paces. It would do well for you and him to be better prepared to work together, and for your troops to be well-oiled come the fight.
    [] Gather The Cult: The day before you are set to march, you assemble the legionary Cult of Mars. While Marius will hold his own augury before the battle, that does not mean that you and the officers sworn to the service of the Red God cannot hold a sacrifice of your own to seek benediction from your patron.
    [] Run Cavalry Drills: The cavalry is exactly as important as they pride themselves on being. The deadly italic horsemen have won many a battle that seemed lost, and as your cavalry mostly sat out the battle at Sardis, you want them in particular well-oiled and ready for the coming combat. As well, it never hurts to ingratiate yourself with the Cavalry prefect, Dolabella.
    So it's been a while and I've forgotten the etiquette of plan making, so excuse anything not kosher. but I figure that the most important thing right now is to remind the men that the brotherhood of the army is greater than that of their blood at the moment. So distribute the pay equally as we can and run them all through drills to keep them alive in the coming fights
     
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    Telamon said:
    "It would seem Greeks are born with it," you snipe back.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Or Maybe It's Maybelline.

    I'm thinking this for the vote:
    [] Reward the Officers: The camp officers, the prefects, even the other Tribunes -- these men have served finely and with distinction these last months, from Samnium to Sardis, and deserve reward. The officers range from plebian to patrician, so there is no class divide here, merely one of rank. There are, you are well aware, men with decades of seniority in the legions who, unlike the centurions Pompolussa and Carcellus, do not appreciate being placed under boys years their younger. Some coin might soften their harsh feelings on the matter, you imagine.
    [] Assemble The Officers: Your legion's lifeblood is it's centurions, it's prefects and it's soldiers. Making sure they work well together and can improvise in the heat of battle is important. You will do something unorthodox and spend several hours a day drilling the officers alone.
    [] Run Drills: Over the next few days, you gather with Cassianus in the dim pre-dawn outside the city to run your troops through your paces. It would do well for you and him to be better prepared to work together, and for your troops to be well-oiled come the fight.
    [] Gather The Cult: The day before you are set to march, you assemble the legionary Cult of Mars. While Marius will hold his own augury before the battle, that does not mean that you and the officers sworn to the service of the Red God cannot hold a sacrifice of your own to seek benediction from your patron.

    We have a big fight coming up, so I figured we should give the money to the officers, thinking it'd give a bit of incentive for them to put a bit more into the drills we could run with them. Then more drills with Cassianus and the troops to make sure we're on the same page, as we're in the weird half command situation with him. Figured gathering the cult is a no brainer if we want to keep pushing it.

    I'm kind of figuring we don't really have the ability to split the spoils well, if I remember correctly Atellus kind of sucks with money. We are pretty good with people, though, so we might be able to smooth over any issues that come up.
     
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    Welcome back even if the scene is an unwelcome reminder of how bloodthirsty and brutal ancient warfare could be...

    Telamon said:
    My childhood, I am ashamed to remind you, was the plow, the hammer and the seed.
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    Would that really be something a roman general would be ashamed off, especially in front of legionaries? Humility (and farm life in general I think) was an Roman ideal and I am unsure why any roman general would imply he was raised in luxury, especially when faced with legionaries of often a similar upbringing instead of senators, at least at this point in history.
     
    Erandil said:
    Would that really be something a roman general would be ashamed off, especially in front of legionaries? Humility (and farm life in general I think) was an Roman ideal and I am unsure why any roman general would imply he was raised in luxury, especially when faced with legionaries of often a similar upbringing instead of senators, at least at this point in history.
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    That's the point. Marius is acting humble to endear himself to his soldiers as one of them, boosting their loyalty on by hammering on class divisions and boosting their morale by making Marius's battles their battles too.
     
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