[b]Antioch, Roman Syria[/b] Crispinus did not like traveling by sea. It was not sea sickness that troubled him; he did not seem to be plagued by the nausea that overcame so many of his land-loving soldiers. For him, it was the unnatural feeling of the thing. The sight of the sea itself was what bothered him the most. It was endless, a choppy blue void that went on blasphemously into the infinite, and it reminded him how helpless they were so far from land. When he was out on deck, he watched every wave with suspicion, and every cloud with the same fearful awe that must have enveloped John of Patmos when the apocalypse was revealed before him. Because of this, he preferred to stay in his cabin and prepare his dispatches for the Saracen war. The cabin was not an ideal retreat from the woes of sea travel, however. The timbers creaked and groaned, reminding him that it was nothing more than the glory of God and the skill of the shipwright that kept them above water. The room smelled like sea-salt and stale body odor, and there were no windows to let in light. It was dark and dank, lit only by a few oil burning lamps. "Address to Marcellus Augustus" Crispinus dictated. He had a low voice, the sort that could command on a battlefield when needed, but was more often heard in a low, contemplative volume. His skin was an olive-toned light brown, and he was balding due to middle age, though his hair was still as black as tar. He paced the floor in a white tunic with round, geometric patterns woven into the cloth. He dictated to a young secretary; a mustachioed Roman-African named Boethius. "I have contemplated your magnanimous offer to supply western leaders for the conflict against the Saracens of the east. To... oh devil, how do I say this?" he paused. "Your stipulations... it is my... it is fitting for any general to consider the importance of maintaining the difficult borders in the west, so I have accepted it as my natural duty to make my requests with consideration to your needs." The 'stipulation' that he avoid asking for any active generals or Palatini were the requirements of any request for aid, and one that Crispinus had no doubt came from the jealous career politicians that filled Imperial court. Even on campaign, the Emperor was surrounded by ambitious generals and men who feared their civilian offices could be endangered by the success of others. They took any chance to plant a seed of doubt in the mind of the Emperor regarding the loyalty of successful men. It was a game, and not one that Crispinus had any interest in playing. "If he can be spared, I wish to call upon Manius Titinius Silvanus, who served loyally in the maintenance of the African borders when many of the legions stationed in Africa were called into action in Hispania and Gaul. He has a capacity for fighting in drier climates, and understands the practices of the people who dwell there. He is, as far as I am aware, retired from active military life and therefore his absence will be a burden to nobody but his own kin, who are adapted toward the sacrifices loyal servants must make for the state." Crispinus waited as Boethius wrote. The young man mouthed each word as he carefully etched it onto yellowing parchment. While he waited, Crispinus chipped at the soft outer layer of a wooden support beam with his thumbnail. Splinters pealed away with little effort. The wood was damp and spongy from years of service on the open sea. "Finished." Boethius said. Crispinus turned from the aging beam. "Read it back to me." "To the illustrious Marcellus Augustus, Dominus Noster. I have contemplated your magnanimous offer to supply western leaders for the conflict against the Saracens of the east. It is fitting for any general to consider the importance of maintaining the difficult borders in the west, so I have accepted it as my natural duty to make my requests with consideration to your needs. If he can be spared, I wish to call upon Manius Titinius Silvanus, who served loyally in the maintenance of the African borders when many of the legions stationed in Africa were called into action in Hispania and Gaul. He has a capacity for fighting in drier climates, and understands the practices of the people who dwell there. He is, as far as I am aware, retired from active military life and therefore his loss will be a burden to nobody but his own kin, who are adapted toward the sacrifices loyal servants must make to the state. Your servant Flavius Crispinus, Vicar of the Orient." "Good, I suppose." Crispinus answered, digging wood-pulp from under his thumbnail. "You are better with words, Boethius. If you feel any changes are need, do what is necessary." "I do not think any changes are needed." Boethius replied. "We will be making landfall soon, I will place this letter with the first Imperial ship I find en route to Venice. If... if that is what you wish, that is." "Yes." Crispinus waved his hand. "Don't get too excited with the pomp. I trust you with this." he paused for a moment. "Though perhaps... perhaps you should make a copy and send the second over land with an officer." "Do you fear somebody is attempting to harm your progress here?" Crispinus smiled. "I cannot say I trust everyone in Italy. But perhaps that is because I do not know them all." There was an abrupt commotion from outside the walls of the cabin, accented by the pounding of feet against the deck. "Land?" Boethius said hopefully. Crispinus said nothing. Instead, he went outdoors to see for himself. His eyes struggled to adjust to the sunlight. It was one of those small things, like the tightness of his skin, that he noticed was deteriorating with time. On deck, sailors hollered and danced, or said their prayers and went back to work. The marines - Roman soldiers who wore padded leather instead of heavy steel armor - joined in the temporary celebration as well. Some clapped their oval shields against the deck, but they were all pointing toward the east, where a thin line of green marked the approaching Syrian coast. "I feel like Saint Helen." the voice of his wife, Eudokia, surprised him. She gently strode down from the poop deck, carefully placing each foot fall. She was wearing a sky-blue stola, and a patterned scarf to cover her auburn-brown hair. A handmaid held a parasol to protect her mistress from the sun, but the Mediterranean heat still managed to bring out a blush in both of their faces. "We are walking in her footsteps." Crispinus said, taking her by the hand as she cleared the last step. "For different reasons." "Will we be stopping in Jerusalem?" she asked eagerly. "I know that the Emperor's business comes first, but if we have the opportunity to visit the holy places I would feel evil ignoring them. The intercession of God should not be taken as granted, after all." "That will come in time, though I hope to visit most of the eastern provinces. It will be important for us to understand their defenses now that they sit on the precipice of war." "Where will we be making our home? Have you chosen where to where to base this venture?" Crispinus sniffed. "Antioch, for now. I do not know how fast the Saracens are moving, but the Arab tribes can advance quicker than our own forces. Antioch can be supplied by the sea, and it is a difficult city to take by siege. Jerusalem sits on a plain that can be approached from all sides." "Caesarea sits against the sea, does it not?" Eudokia noted. "That is true, but its walls are not as defensible. Antioch has been fortified against the Persian threat from the northwest, and it sits against a mountain so that it isn't so easy to approach. Complications like this will confound a Saracen, who's culture does not practice fortification in the way that civilized people do." "Antioch." she smiled. Her eyes lit up like those of a child, an expression that came commonly to her, and one that her husband found endearing. She was fifteen years younger than him, and he could always see it in her eyes. "It is an ancient city. I will proudly breath its air." "Very ancient." Crispinus nodded. "Seleucus chose the site himself, in the days following Alexander's death." They were following the shoreline now, passing a crumbling town where a port had once sat. Some fishermen who were preparing their nets stared at them now with eyes shaded by straw hats. A meager fishing boat rested in the shallow remnants of a silted harbor, between the remnants of cracked sea walls. This had been Seleucia Pieria - the old port of Antioch, before nature reclaimed it. Beyond Seleucia was the scrubby hills of coastal Syria. The grass was still green from the lingering spring rains. In the stony mountains that lorded over the landscape were pine forests, and groves of the fabled Cedars of Lebanon, which formed dark emerald patches on the brown-green slopes. "I can see it now." Eudokia said, staring studiously at the hills. "This is a defensible place." "Yes." Crispinus nodded. "Let us hope the city itself is up to the task." - They docked in St Symeon, the port city at the mouth of the Orontes river. This city was named for the famous Saint who had proved his devotion to God by living on top of a pillar until his death. From there Crispinus assembled his household and the picked men of his Bucellarii, and they proceeded down the road to Antioch. The city was fifteen miles from its port, nestled against the northern end of a mountainous ridge line. It was a brisk enough journey by horseback, across the sides of rock-strewn hills past shepherds keeping their flocks. Their party was mounted, save for the servants who trudged behind them and were quickly left in the dust to guard the plodding wagon train. Most of an hour went by before they passed the ruined remnants of the old circuit wall, which had been abandoned centuries early. The old wall had always enclosed miles of farmland, and that was a weakness. It meant that the men defending it would be stretched thin and left vulnerable to a concentrated assault. A century before, the Emperor had ordered a new wall be build closer to the city, leaving the old one to crumble. Now the stone that had once protected the city from Persian invaders was being scavenged for building material by the farmers who's olive groves grew on both sides of the fragmented line. The new wall hugged the city, rising up into the mountains above and coming back around to follow along the river. There were signs of decay, but they were in better condition than he could have hoped. As they passed through the gates, he saw eyes staring at him from the parapets. The wall was manned. Duke Livius, one of Crispinus's lieutenants, leaned into his saddle to speak. "Do you see them?" he asked in a whisper. Crispinus nodded. They were passing through the city now, down an avenue that cut between run down houses and old brick churches. Livius was a large man with a neatly trimmed ebony beard. He wore a bear-skin cape over his shoulders despite the eastern heat. When he leaned to speak, he had to duck his head so to be at ear level with most men. "What do they know that we don't?" he asked. "I fear the answer." Crispinus replied. "But it is a good sign that they come to their own defense. How often do we hear it that a foolish city sits on their hands and waits for the Emperor to swoop down and save them?" "I am eager to hear more." Livius responded. "These Saracens are a new foe, for me at least. I am used to Goths." "They will be a different beast." Crispinus replied. "For instance, they are not Christian." "Yes." Livius nodded. "That is a good omen. When the heathen hordes pound on the gates of a city so revered in our Christian faith, God's favor will shine clear enough." A third rider joined them. John the Vandal, another one of Crispinus' Dukes, was a brown-haired man with a pointed beard and blue eyes. He was the descendant of a Vandal noble who had sided with the Romans during the war to extinguish the short-lived Vandal Kingdom in Africa. That had been over a century ago, and he was one of the last of his people to still identify with his heritage. "I would not make decisions for God, Livius." John grinned. If Livius was a good humored man, John was sour humored. Crispinus supposed it was well enough that both of them had a sense of humor at all. "Where is Gog and Magog?" "Past the Gates of Alexander." Livius frowned. "In the lands where men have yellow skin and beaded eyes. That is not our concern. All we have to worry about is the Saracens." "They destroyed a Roman army. Even if they are not Gog and Magog, they are dangerous. They took a Caesar." "Young Caesar... Foolish boy." Livius shook his head. "He shouldn't have led his men into the desert, away from his supply lines and into places where the enemy feels at home." "I heard he deemed himself the conqueror of Arabia." John mused, "I suppose he felt that he was required to conquer it after that." "This is not seemly talk." Crispinus glowered, cutting them off. They were entering the forum now, where the city elders were gathered to welcome them. "We will discuss strategy later." -- The elders welcomed them with subdued pomp, greeting them with a small contingent of the city garrison and the members of their own households. They blew trumpets as Crispinus and his companions entered the forum. The people of the city who were about their business in the market stalls and government offices of the Forum, gawked at the new comers as if they were traveling entertainers. "Welcome, Imperial saviors of Syria!" the Praefect boomed. He was an elderly man with white hair and a belly that protruded so that his rich clothes looked something like a tent. "We did not expect you for another couple of days, but this is a pleasant surprise." "We arrived in port this morning." Crispinus said. A servant rushed out and helped him dismount. "Our armies will march from St Symeon tomorrow, but I wanted to see the city ahead of time." "Good, good." the Praefect nodded. He seem tense, as if he was nervous to get the Vicar to his work and wash his own hands of the whole affair. The next thing he said confirmed Crispinus's impressions "We should leave this place and talk. You probably want an update on the situation." "I would like to rest if we have time." Crispinus responded. "And the sooner I reach my new home, the sooner my wife can make our household." "Good, good." the Praefect repeated, but his tone was lower now, almost sinister. "But there is something you need to see. If you and your men follow me, I will take you to the Church of Saint Peter." In the Church? Crispinus was curious now, and it was his office to check on matters deemed important to the state. Though he was tired, he followed the Praefect and did his duty. They proceeded through the streets on foot, following the elders of the city and their guards past quiet shops and old houses with plaster pealing from their walls to reveal brick. On the eastern horizon, the mountains of Lebanon formed the barrier that protected this land from the deserts of Syria and Arabia. This was a tough land, where centuries worth of Roman generals had played cat and mouse games with Persian invaders in difficult mountain passes, and in the distant border forts which bordered the arid sands dividing Syria from the fertile plain of the Tigris and Euphrates. Any general worth is salt knew the history that had happened here; the tragedy of Crassus, the failures of Antony, and the humiliation of Valerian had all played out in the these eastern lands. But the Emperor's Trajan and Septimius Severus had launched their Mesopotamian campaigns from here as well, and it was in these mountains that the crafty Belisarius held back an army twice the size of his own. When they came to the Church of Saint Peter, Crispinus was surprise to find that it was a cave built into the living rock of the mountain that protruded the furthest into town. It was carved to looked like the entrance to a standing church. They went inside, and Crispinus saw that very little space had been carved into the rock, making the church an alcove with a natural rocky ceiling. "Messengers arrived from Emesa three days ago bearing news of the Prince's army." the Praefect spoke. Their foot steps echoed like rain-drops in a cavern pool. The church smelled strongly of incense, as if the priest was burning half of their supply at once. That seemed curious, but he was not used to the habits of Easterners quite yet. "They confirmed what we already knew, that the Army of Arabicus Caesar is lost. The only survivors were slaughtered at a battle that took place near the camp of the Christian Saracens." "The messengers that arrived here, were they Roman?" John the Vandal asked. "No." the Praefect answered simply. "Christian Saracens. Some of their kind are fleeing to the safety of our borders. They say their kin from the south worship an Anti-Christ, and that they have came to destroy the word of God." "Jupiter preserve us..." Livius exclaimed. He was an Italian, and vestiges of the old beliefs still lingered in that land, but he was no pagan. When he realized what he had said, he made the sign of the cross and bowed his head in silent prayer. The rest of them payed his slip no mind. There was another matter at hand now. "They are seeking sanctuary with us now, but in the way of their people they sleep for a time in the afternoons. I will wake them if you wish to speak with them..." "That is the way of many people." John spoke. "But there is something you have not said yet. Go on, friend." "Yes." the Praefect continued. "They came with a... a message. A message from the commander of the Saracen army." "Directly?" Crispinus inquired. "They have spoken to him?" "No." the Praefect replied quickly. "It was sent to Damascus, by way of which it reached Emesa." "Damascus?" John inquired. "I might have heard the name before, but it does not mean much to me. Why would they send a message to that town?" "It is one of the largest city's in Syria." the Praefect answered, seeming somewhat surprised by John's ignorance. "A market city if I recall right." Crispinus spoke up, ignoring the loud silence of John and his wounded ego. "I suppose it is well known to the Saracens. Their caravans would pass through Damascus, not Antioch or Emesa." "Yes." the Praefect answered. "But that is not what is important. The message they sent was... you will have to see to understand." They reached a darkened corner of the room, where three censors hung smoking above a bejeweled golden bowl. It was there that the priest was waiting, lyrically chanting a prayer for the dead. What sat inside the bowl looked gruesome, like torn rags from a birthing bed all balled up and tossed aside. Crispinus thought it might be a relic at first, until the Praefect pulled away the linen coverings to reveal a morbid sight. It was a severed head, well rotted by the climate. Someone had dipped it in pitch to try to preserve its features, but it was too far gone to save and half skeletal. Livius covered his nose with his robe. "What is this?" he said under the cloth. "This... is Duke Anastasius. He commanded Arabicus Caesar's reserve when they left Jerusalem. From what we are told, he was the last surviving general." "Surviving no longer." John said. "He died with the Christian Arabs?" The Praefect nodded. "We are told the rest of his body arrived in Jerusalem. It is being rushed up here so he can be properly buried." "He was a martyr." Crispinus spoke. He was offended by what he saw. It was an naked insult, there was no other way to read it. "This remnant should be made a relic. The Saracen who delivered it to Damascus..." "Oh no, it was not delivered by a Saracen. The rider was Roman. He died from his wounds when he reached Damascus." "Another martyr." John sighed.