Order and Justice (1)
Euresia held out stubbornly, but in the end, she couldn't flatly reject the Senate's demands. She put forward one condition.
She demanded the title of Noble One first. In other words, she wanted to retain her status as a member of the imperial family.
But the title of Noble One was reserved for the emperor or empress alone.
The Senate expressed reservations about this demand, but when the emperor stepped in and requested they grant it, they acquiesced.
In the end, despite her marriage to a commoner, Euresia ascended to the highest rank a woman of imperial blood could achieve: Noble One.
Officially, she was now hailed as the empire's First Lady, and she would receive the full protocol befitting that title.
I thought the special privileges granted to Euresia could stir up trouble, but I kept my opinion to myself.
While Euresia's state wedding proceeded with great fanfare, a messenger arrived from the east.
He brought grim news: the Graike rebels had swelled beyond twenty thousand strong.
Even so, I figured there was no chance of the suppression force losing to a rabble of twenty thousand.
With an experienced commander like Gratianus at the helm and battle-hardened legionaries in the ranks, defeat seemed unlikely under any normal circumstances.
But my expectations shattered just two days later.
A new messenger, who had ridden flat out with only two days' rest, reported a "grave situation."
"Your Majesty. The Graike rebels have crushed the suppression force."
"General Gratianus was defeated?"
The emperor—and everyone else in the room—was stunned into silence.
The empire's top leaders had been fretting over how much damage the rebellion suppression might cost, but outright defeat? It was unthinkable.
A mere band of rebels beating elite imperial troops?
Yet the messenger delivered the harsh reality without flinching.
"Yes, Your Majesty. They lost nearly five hundred men in the first clash and fell back."
"How could this happen?"
The emperor couldn't hide his shock.
I watched the messenger steadily before speaking up.
"Where did General Gratianus suffer his defeat?"
"In a small valley called Benzeum."
"A valley?"
"Yes. Our forces were marching along the aqueduct...
"So they got hit while crossing the aqueduct bridge."
I scowled as I pieced it together. I didn't need to hear more to understand what had happened.
Graike, where the rebellion had erupted, was riddled with mountains and treacherous roads, making water supply a constant headache.
Hauling water on mules along the winding ridges often slowed the army to a crawl.
The imperial forces might have managed if they were cavalry-heavy, but the suppression army was mostly infantry.
Mindful of this, Gratianus had opted to march along the aqueduct instead of the roads.
But if the rebels knew this and turned the plan against them, defeat was inevitable from the start.
Collapse the aqueduct bridge as the army crossed the valley span, and the entire force would crumble in an instant.
"Just as you say, sir."
I covered my mouth with both hands.
Rebels who only know how to charge head-on have a strategist who can exploit terrain. That means they're not just a mob of slaves—they're a dangerous foe.
I revised my view of the enemy. Dismissing them after Gratianus's defeat would be foolish.
As I mulled this over, the chief secretary asked,
"What of General Gratianus now?"
"The general has rallied his forces and withdrawn twenty kilometers."
That was some small mercy, at least.
If Gratianus had been some green rookie, the bridge collapse would have thrown them into chaos, leaving them vulnerable to the rebels' assault and nearly annihilated. But as a veteran of countless battles, he'd minimized the losses.
The problem is, Gratianus lacks the ability to turn this around.
There was no helping it. An army that loses its first engagement always suffers a morale drop, and without some extraordinary catalyst, victory becomes elusive.
Even a brave commander like Gratianus couldn't magically restore his men's spirits.
The troops needed something to rally around—a reinforcement column, or a new commander they could trust.
The emperor and his secretaries conferred with grave expressions. Even with the forces regrouped, the rebellion wouldn't be quashed anytime soon, and that meant headaches all around.
I held my silence a moment longer, then spoke.
"Your Majesty."
"Speak."
"I'll go."
I stated my resolve. As Praetorian Prefect, leaving the capital wasn't ideal.
But things were easier now than last time. With the Senate handling imperial regency, the burden of power wasn't solely on my shoulders.
"It's just a band of rebels—does the general need to step in personally?"
The chief secretary meant it wasn't a foe worthy of the Praetorian commander.
But we'd learned our lesson about underestimating them.
I replied with a stern face.
"This rebellion must be crushed as swiftly as possible. To do that, we need to boost the troops' morale after their opening defeat. Sending reinforcements quickly enough is impossible. But if I take only my guardsmen and cross over, I can link up with the legion in days."
"Why not dispatch a full legion from the border?"
"Mobilizing another legion takes time. Graike's olive groves and mines are vital revenue streams for the empire.
We need to normalize them as fast as we can and teach the provincials that rebellion leads nowhere. Dallying will only embolden the insurgents and give our external enemies dangerous ideas."
My words carried a warning edge, and the emperor fidgeted with his fingers.
He hesitated a long while before deciding.
"Appoint the general as suppression force commander."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
I bowed to the emperor.
His approval was a formality. To take command, I'd need the Senate's consent.
Of course, they were unlikely to refuse. They wanted the rebellion ended quickly too.
I withdrew from the audience chamber and headed for the Senate assembly hall.
Rumble.
Lightning cracked across the darkening sky. I glared at the roiling eastern sea, pelted by rain thicker than my thumb.
Crossing in this weather won't be easy.
As I watched the waves crash in white foam, Rikius approached.
"Sir. The sailors are refusing to sail. No matter how much we offer—triple pay—they won't go out in this."
"Figures."
"Why not wait it out and cross when the sea calms?"
Rikius suggested.
I'd love to if we had the luxury.
But in war, you seize victory by moving first—grabbing the hem of Fortune's robe.
Dawdling here could let the rebels smash Gratianus's army, turning a bad situation dire.
Waiting for clear skies knowing that? Reckless.
"Can't. Who knows what the rebels are up to across the water? The messenger's news is over four days old. Things could be worse by now. Delay a few more days, and if the army gets wiped out? Game over."
Rikius, seasoned as he was, got it. He hesitated, then saluted across his chest.
"Understood. I'll round up some sailors."
"Money's no object."
I sent Rikius off and turned my gaze to the black horizon.
Two hours later, he'd scraped together a crew—mostly poor fishermen.
I handed out gold coins, promising double if they got us to Graike on time.
The sailors gulped at the raging waves but nodded at the gold in their hands.
A few who'd taken advance pay shouted,
"Cast off! Hoist the sails!"
Soon, the ship unfurled canvas and left harbor.
Boom!
A mountain of a wave slammed the hull the moment we cleared the breakwater. The ship lurched back, sweeping one soldier overboard.
"Watch it!"
I drew my sword and stabbed the soldier's cloak with all my strength. He halted, dangling from the blade.
"Th-thank you, sir."
The man gasped, clutching a nearby mast.
Each wave brought sailors bailing with buckets. Oarsmen chanted in rhythm, stroking to keep the bow from the swells.
"Wave from port! Turn the ship!"
At the veteran sailor's cry, the port oarsmen stilled. The ship pivoted sharply as the wave smashed the deck. I gripped the rail tight against the onslaught.
"Sir. You all right?"
Rikius panted.
"Fine."
"Still, you should go below."
I gave a faint smile.
"If she capsizes, inside or out, we're done for. Better to face death head-on—that's a soldier's end, no?"
It was also a gladiator's ritual line.
Rikius mulled it over and nodded.
"A man facing death deserves respect. You're right, sir."
"Another wave coming."
Before I finished, it rocked us hard. A secured bucket rolled free and into the sea. We fought to hold on amid the bucking madness.
The storm battered us nearly half a day.
Bad luck, and we'd have flipped or lost men to the deep.
But we all survived.
The sailors thanked the gods, sacrificing a chicken's head from our stores.
Once through, the sea went still as if nothing happened. We sprawled along the rail, basking in divine mercy and a brief respite.
In a way, the sea's like the human heart. One moment raging in fury, the next offering mercy and love.
I lay back and closed my eyes.
The ship made Graike after two days' sail.
Longer than planned, but after the storm, it was negligible.
"Rikius. Pay them as promised. No—give them the whole pouch."
"R-right."
Rikius fumbled a moment, then tossed the pouches to the crew.
For the price of our lives, it wasn't much.
The sailors bowed, overjoyed at the windfall.
"Thank you."
"No, we're the grateful ones. Gods speed you home."
"And you, sir."
I shook hands and shouldered our gear. With a full entourage and horses, no need—but we had no time for that.
Like the men, I carried water and rations.
We marched the road with lighter loads than a standard legionary's. Southeast Graike was rebel territory; northwest, near the empire, belonged to the suppression force.
Having landed northwest, we figured Gratianus's army wasn't far.
After a few kilometers toward the port, Rikius pointed.
"Sir. There."
"Our forces?"
I halted, eyeing the stockade by the road. Classic imperial camp.
Closer than I thought.
Good—but something felt off. After a first loss, they'd best hunker by a city for advantage.
Camped outside? Only two reasons.
The city refused entry, or heavy losses made desertion a worry, so they stayed out.
Neither boded well.
I hoped for neither and headed for the stockade.
(To be continued)