Sassanid Persia, August 283 ad.
Marcus Aurelius Carus Germanicus Maximus Augustus, Emperor of Rome, sat his horse atop a hillock overlooking the river Tigris, watching as his army was ferried across the river, supervised by his son, the Caesar Numerian. It was, all things considered, a miserable day for a crossing. Dark clouds gathered in the sky and thunder rolled in the air, it was unusual weather for Mesopotamia, for certain, but not unprecedented.
Still, morale in the legions was soaring. Not a fortnight past Carus had unleashed them on the virtually undefended Sassanid capital of Ctesiphon, the subsequent sack of which had been the highpoint in a virtually uncontested romp across western Persia, exorcising the demons that still lingered from the disastrous defeat of the Emperor Valerian at Edessa some twenty years before.
It was a punitive campaign long in the planning, postponed first by the breakup of the Empire following Valerian's capture, then again by the untimely deaths of Carus' formidable predecessors Probus and Aurelian, but those delays had served the Romans well. The great Sassanid King Shapur was dead, replaced by an unpopular successor no means his equal, and the Sassanid army was far away, engaged in a gruelling campaign against the tribesmen of distant Bactria. Meeting no significant resistance, Rome's veteran soldiers had plundered the helpless Persian frontier with impunity.
Still though, there were some among the upper ranks that believed crossing the Tigris was reaching too far. The only man to ever lead the legions so far East and not meet with ruin had been the mighty Trajan, more than a century ago. What went unsaid was that Carus, though undoubtedly competent, was no Trajan. Sooner or later the Sassanid army was going to extricate itself from Bactria and march west. It would be better, surely, for the Romans to take the vast amounts of plunder they had captured and retreat to the traditional borders established by Hadrian?
One of the more prominent sceptics rode beside the emperor even now. Diocles, the commander of the sacer comitatus, the Emperor's cavalry bodyguard, was an ambitious and well connected member of the cadre of Illyrian generals that had given rise to Probus and Aurelian before him. He was, however, well known and trusted by Carus, and the Emperor had given serious thought to his cautious council, fully aware that his bodyguard voiced the concerns of his fellow Illyrians, and had swayed several of the upper echelons outside his clique, including young Numerian.
The emperor was dwelling on this when Diocles spoke up. The storm, he said, was growing closer and increasing in intensity, and it would be best if Carus take shelter from the storm, sending word to Numerian to halt the crossing till morning. Carus, though eager to push on and suspecting Diocles would be quite happy for the storm to drag on, recognised the wisdom in such advice and ordered his entourage to head down from the hill.
No sooner had he done so than a brilliant flash erupted from the heavens, a bolt of coruscating lightning arcing from the sky straight towards the imperial party. Carus' breath caught in his throat as it seemed his end had come, but by some trick of the Gods the lightning sought out one of his more heavily armoured companions; striking Diocles atop his high-crested helm. The general, and his horse, dropped to the sand, struck dead as if by Jupiter himself.
A visibly shaken Carus was escorted to his tent, where he spent the remainder of the night closeted with his generals and discussing the nature of such an undeniable omen. Eventually, it was decided that Diocles' unlikely death had been a clear divine condemnation of the withdrawal proposed by the Illyrians.
The legions, it was agreed, would press on, in the footsteps of Trajan and beyond...
Marcus Aurelius Carus Germanicus Maximus Augustus, Emperor of Rome, sat his horse atop a hillock overlooking the river Tigris, watching as his army was ferried across the river, supervised by his son, the Caesar Numerian. It was, all things considered, a miserable day for a crossing. Dark clouds gathered in the sky and thunder rolled in the air, it was unusual weather for Mesopotamia, for certain, but not unprecedented.
Still, morale in the legions was soaring. Not a fortnight past Carus had unleashed them on the virtually undefended Sassanid capital of Ctesiphon, the subsequent sack of which had been the highpoint in a virtually uncontested romp across western Persia, exorcising the demons that still lingered from the disastrous defeat of the Emperor Valerian at Edessa some twenty years before.
It was a punitive campaign long in the planning, postponed first by the breakup of the Empire following Valerian's capture, then again by the untimely deaths of Carus' formidable predecessors Probus and Aurelian, but those delays had served the Romans well. The great Sassanid King Shapur was dead, replaced by an unpopular successor no means his equal, and the Sassanid army was far away, engaged in a gruelling campaign against the tribesmen of distant Bactria. Meeting no significant resistance, Rome's veteran soldiers had plundered the helpless Persian frontier with impunity.
Still though, there were some among the upper ranks that believed crossing the Tigris was reaching too far. The only man to ever lead the legions so far East and not meet with ruin had been the mighty Trajan, more than a century ago. What went unsaid was that Carus, though undoubtedly competent, was no Trajan. Sooner or later the Sassanid army was going to extricate itself from Bactria and march west. It would be better, surely, for the Romans to take the vast amounts of plunder they had captured and retreat to the traditional borders established by Hadrian?
One of the more prominent sceptics rode beside the emperor even now. Diocles, the commander of the sacer comitatus, the Emperor's cavalry bodyguard, was an ambitious and well connected member of the cadre of Illyrian generals that had given rise to Probus and Aurelian before him. He was, however, well known and trusted by Carus, and the Emperor had given serious thought to his cautious council, fully aware that his bodyguard voiced the concerns of his fellow Illyrians, and had swayed several of the upper echelons outside his clique, including young Numerian.
The emperor was dwelling on this when Diocles spoke up. The storm, he said, was growing closer and increasing in intensity, and it would be best if Carus take shelter from the storm, sending word to Numerian to halt the crossing till morning. Carus, though eager to push on and suspecting Diocles would be quite happy for the storm to drag on, recognised the wisdom in such advice and ordered his entourage to head down from the hill.
No sooner had he done so than a brilliant flash erupted from the heavens, a bolt of coruscating lightning arcing from the sky straight towards the imperial party. Carus' breath caught in his throat as it seemed his end had come, but by some trick of the Gods the lightning sought out one of his more heavily armoured companions; striking Diocles atop his high-crested helm. The general, and his horse, dropped to the sand, struck dead as if by Jupiter himself.
A visibly shaken Carus was escorted to his tent, where he spent the remainder of the night closeted with his generals and discussing the nature of such an undeniable omen. Eventually, it was decided that Diocles' unlikely death had been a clear divine condemnation of the withdrawal proposed by the Illyrians.
The legions, it was agreed, would press on, in the footsteps of Trajan and beyond...
