Two guardsmen stand rigid on a watchtower in the port city of Sinope. A city on the Black Sea coast of Bythinia et Pontus (modern Turkey). Gothic raiders have been active in the area. Burning and raiding villages, cities, and even parts of Greece.
What truly surprised the men guarding these lands were the Palmyrene and the newly dubbed Comitatus cavalrymen riding up and down the coast.
The Palmyrene cavalry thundered forth. Heavy armor glinting in the sun, like the mounts of Olympus, they strode forth in all their glory. Their horses were covered in iron scales. Slowing as they approached the city gates, one of the riders yelled in Aramaic.
"By order of the governor of the province of Pontus, we are to reinforce this city."
A sigh escaped the older guardsman as he yelled, "Open the gate!"
A team of slaves run out, their bare feet clapping against the stone roads. Their calloused hands push against the gate with the ease of men who spent a lifetime pushing things without pay. Well, as easily as humans can push 5000-pound doors. Even with bronze hinges, the inertia required to push the doors was immense.
The younger guard stares at the slaves, a question clear on his face.
"Well, get on with it, greenhorn," bellowed the older guard.
"I don't understand why these cataphracts can't all come at once. I mean, I get that we use small cavalry teams across the coast, but why do they reinforce our cities in such a way? The guard gestures oddly at the small cavalry detachment entering the city, a mere twenty men.
The older guard bellows his laugh, catching the ire of some of the slaves. "The real question is why the damned magistrate don't leave the city gates open when he knows reinforcements are likely to come."
The younger guard pauses at that. Because yes, while martial law is in effect, it does seem incredibly odd to have the gates closed all day and night when people need to enter and exit a city.
The two watch as the slaves once again pull the gates shut. The bronze hinges are screaming louder than the slaves themselves.
"I swear by Vesta if these gates fall because of a single magistrate, I'm looting the man's palace myself."
In the local stables, servants, slaves, and blacksmiths scurry forth to handle this new wave of armored horse. Across the length of Sinop, the cataphracts, the armored cavalry of Odenathus, prepare for battle. Reports from the light horse of the comitatus indicate that Anatolia as a whole is safer. The raids are decreasing after the horse men of the empire successfully halted the barbarians on the Black Sea.
Intriguingly, the governor of Pontus received a letter reporting a great barbarian host amasses once more. Every city has been slowly sending heavy cavalrymen this way and that.
Their plan is simple: spread the forces out and rotate them so when the raid does come, the city needs merely hold out for three days until a large cavalry reinforcement may arrive.
The barbarians were desperate because of these interventions. Their leader holds a council with his captains and their allies.
I look at my men who not but three years ago were kings of the ocean; now we can hardly raid the Anatolian coast.
I see my men and my allies, tired and injured; many have lost all morale.
I slam my cup on the table.
"What happened to the men who burnt cities, stole fleets, and sacked their precious temples? Where are the brave Heruli warriors who sailed our ships. Where are the Borani who took these ships from those spoiled Greeks? Where are the Carpi whose falx tore the Romans apart?"
I look for answers in the eyes of my men. None of them can look me in the eye.
I roar, "Are you cowards? Do these iron horses make you guppies when you ought to be men?"
The leader of the Heruli stands up and stares right at me. He is Naulobatus, the man who coordinated the ships with his men's sailing expertise.
"You forget yourself; berating us won't stop those damned iron demons from tearing my men apart. It won't deliver us victory over troops who are everywhere and nowhere at once."
A grumble resounds through the chamber; many echo the grievances of Naulobatus.
"Last week my boys raided an olive oil press, and when they tried to take the loot back to our ships. Bam! The iron demons tore them to pieces."
"Thats nuthin me boys raided a town, took sackfuls of silver with us. Then out of nowhere, Romans on horseback surround us and force us to give up our hard earned silver."
"Ha! You didn't even face the iron horses."
"Watch ya tounge or I tear it out."
"Try me."
The chamber gets rowdy; men slam their mugs on tables, and bets are made on which man will win or die.
The leader yells at his men to focus. But none look at the man. For these great captains their whole world is an argument over horses.
Nautibalus walks over, grabs both men by their helms, and slams their faces into one another.
"Focus, idiots. You gamble while Romans tear us apart with cavalry across the sea."
Reluctantly the captains take their seats; the two men who started the fight rub their heads in annoyance and reluctant respect.
The leader looks at his men cleanly now. No longer are these the warriors who tore Rome assunder. Their eyes beady, stress reverberating past their armor. Raids are no longer a surefire path to fortune. Instead, each raid forces a man to ask, will I die?
The leader clears his throat. "Men, I will not lie; we have a few raids left before the coasts are cut off by Roman horse." A round of nods accompanies his words.
"Yet we will not go quietly. I propose one last raid to recuperate all our losses so when we stop we are fat on Roman silver."
The men cheer and holler. One more raid and we go home rich, every raider's dream.
&&
The governor of Pontus gave me a simple mission: speak to Hairan, the hero of Dacia, and don't lose Sinope. The prick said my city was under threat, and instead of giving me an army, he sent one man. A hero, nonetheless, but what the poets always neglect is that heroes need armies.
Head magistrate? More like head punching bag. Oh, Magistrate, do this. Oh, Magistrate, you have to sort through another thousand forms. Oh, Magistrate, we need to leave the gates open. Oh, Magistrate, the gates must remain closed at all times. I should have fishwives replace all my generals; at least their bickering would have fine flesh under the skirts. No, I have to listen to my ugly generals contradict one another daily.
Well, at least Hairan can deal with these idiots instead of me. More time to finish sorting through all those damned forms.
I look out at the doors of my domus, tumbling the speech in my mouth again and again. Hairan is from Palmyra; he is used to flowery greetings. He may ignore mine, but not using one would indicate the man isn't worth my time. An insult I may not survive.
A pair of horns resounds, announcing the arrival of Hairan. The hero of Dacia is adorned in fine eastern silk. He doesn't evoke images of the genius of the battle of the Rainbow Spears. Instead, he looks like a noble heir waiting for wine and conversation.
I almost feel a smile touch my lips. Surely I worried for nothing. Hairan comes here eager for fine wine and even finer company.
"Honored Hairan, truly I am honored to see a hero such as you. Surely you bring tidings of victory," I say, pointing to my dining room. "Come, come. My chef has prepared a wondrous meal for your visit."
Hairan raises an eyebrow. "Your city prepares for siege, and you prepare a banquet."
I answer calmly because, frankly, I have done nothing wrong. "Have no worries; I only have foods here that could not be preserved and would have been a waste of storage space."
Hairan doesn't look amused; in fact, he looks annoyed and impatient. What did I do wrong? By the gods, I knew it; I should have eaten rations. Why did I think a fancy banquet would go over well? I swear I am going to have my advisor fired.
Hairan clears his throat. "That isn't a bad idea; eat the good things, enjoying them before a siege. I must apologize. I have little time for pleasantries. I must prepare for battle."
I feel a breath I didn't know I was holding leave my body.
"Yes, of course," I snap my fingers. "Have this feast sent to our vets; they will need their spirits lifted."
Hairan and I sit down as the servants take away the food. Hairan takes out a stack of forms. I look down and notice these are modified from the regular forms civilians use.
For starters, they have the word "date." a modification that took the Senate years to agree to. That's just government for you, slow to do anything.
"Lord Hairan, what are these forms?"
Hairan clears his throat and picks one up.
"These forms are what allowed me to govern Dacia. The Senate can call the Dacians equal, but I had to ensure those policies were enacted. These reports told me where Dacians were treated like second-class citizens and where corrupt administrators stole from the people."
Hairan picks up one form and slides it across the table. On it is a report from an architect. The completion of the new so-called sky cities.
I look at the general in awe. "So the rumors are true; the Senate has chosen to invest in the people.
Hairan doesn't reply; instead, he picks up another form. It reports raiders amassing in the Black Sea.
"Magistrate," Hairan says. A grim tone falls over the room like a funeral shroud. "Use forms like these to coordinate anything we need to defend this city.
I nod, trying to hide the nervousness on my face. Hairan gets up and turns to leave. He makes it halfway to the door before a question slips from my lips.
"What do we need to defend the city, sir?"
Hairan looks back, and with the tone of a Greek legend, he answers. "Whatever I say we need, Magistrate."