Pro Consulate of Cisapline and Transalpine Gaul

Publius Cornelius Sulla was a man who had a penchant for getting himself into trouble. In this he was like his father, Servius, who had managed to cling on to senatorial rank by the skin of his teeth. The only difference was that Publius was smart enough to keep his nose above water. Or so he thought of himself. A Sulla by reputation and manner, Publius could often be found loitering in the Subura, Roma's most plebeian neighbourhood. Not entirely by choice, it must be said, as Servius Sulla did not have the funds or intelligence required to pull himself from obscurity onto the Palatine Hill, as his half-brother had done. The bitter old man was now reduced to living as the client of his much younger sibling, who was now riding high as the most powerful man within the city of Rome, occasionally turning out to vote in elections and make the required speeches expected of him.

So, naturally, Publius spent his days trading on his uncle's fame and money in the local brothels and drinking houses. Not that there was anything wrong with that. The Consul frequently spent his own free time with whores, actors, and catamites. In his young days, he had even dabbled as a playwright. But the old hypocrite had stressed to his errant nephew the prudence of doing so behind closed doors, a successful political career having lent him an air of respectability. Instead, Publius had become infamous for his misbehaviour in the lower part of the city, particularly for his gambling debts and his dalliances with married women. He was, in short, an utter liability to any self-respecting relative. But this lecherous behaviour was merely an indication of his virile manhood, and was not the reason he had been swiftly packed away from Rome to the provinces. Publius' true error had been getting caught up in the Saturnine Conspiracy. Being a young, impoverished noble with significant debts and little future prospects, Publius had enthusiastically become one of the rabble rousing Tribune's most prominent supporters. Not that he had officially engaged in any violence himself. There were no surviving witnesses to his plunder of senatorial mansions on the Aventine. He had made sure of it.

But being implicated was enough. Despairing of the ineptitude of his fellow conspirators and foretelling their imminent demise, Publius fled to join his father, who had shamefully been reduced to posing as a woman to flee the city and escape to a kinsman's house in Campania. There they had waited out the storm, keeping their heads down as Servius had always been so adept at doing. Upon his triumphant return from Hispania, his uncle had finally decided that enough was enough. On the eve of his Consular election, the precious reputation of Sulla Felix could not afford to be connected even flimsily to a coup against the state. So, favours had been called in. Sulla's clients turned out for Publius' election to a military post in Gaul, to serve alongside the antiquarian Lepidus as a military tribune. Publius was given two days to pack his things, say farewell to his whores, and get the next ship from Ostia. Otherwise, his uncle had implied, he might find himself being hauled before the Praetors. Facing no choice at all, Publius accepted his fate and prepared for what was potentially a years long posting in wet and dreary Gaul.

His turn of misfortune did not end there. After a few days of sailing, Publius' ship was chased around Sardinia by pirates, eventually running aground off of Corsica in a storm after a brave attempt to run the pirate blockade. After spending a month among shepherd and swineherds, Publius was picked up off the Corsican coast and sent on his way to Massalia. With now long blonde hair and a ragged beard, he looked more a Gaul than a Roman, and it took several days for the provincial administration to confirm his identity and posting. Eventually, they were convinced enough to give him an ill fitting suit of armour, a borrowed horse, and send him on his way into the Gallic wilderness.

This ragged Roman would arrive at Lepidus' camp some days later, not long after his defeat with the Aquitani. It seems the tale of the missing tribune had been solved for the time being.

The Legions slowly moved forward in their cohorts, winding and weaving their way through the tall trees of the forest. There was limited underbrush, explained by the lack of light filtering through the canopy. With the passing rain showers above, it was quite dark , and Drusus had torches lit so he could see where each cohort was moving. He could vaguely make out a darker moving shadow off to his left where the Legio Gallica must be. Encouraged by the thought of the safety of being next to the other legion, he ordered his men to pick up the pace, so they could share in the valor of victory.

Some faint sounds of battle started to trickle back and Drusus was confident that Lepidus would be pushing the Gauls backwards. "Forwards!!" He yelled, feeling now was the time to hit his appointed flank of the enemy.

Yet even as the words left his mouth, a loud , all encompassing roar came sweeping in from his right, it had the deep roll of thunder and suddenly there they were! A wall of barbarians crashing through the trees into his right flank.
His officers and messengers looked to him all at once. The blood had fallen from his once blushed face. 'This wasn't part of the plan!!' Drusus thought to himself. Already the far right cohort was engaged, but he knew they must be badly outnumbered. Lepidus where are you now??

Some centurion yell finally broke him from his trance. He turned his helmeted face towards the man, "WHAT ARE YOUR ORDERS SIR??" He blared again.
"RIGHt FLANK," he yelled back, "Get those left cohorts turned Centurion!" Some military training had stuck with him.
A message was sent to find Lepidus, warning him of the situation here.

It was a giant mass confusion of legionaries and men moving and trying to get around each and the trees into formation on the right. Drusus was bumped and pushed as he had left his horse in camp. "STAY IN FORMATION!!" was shouted constantly. He felt lost as the military machine seemed to take over, except he wasn't behind the lines observing, he was right in the middle as the soldiers rushed to help their comrades.

The Gauls had pushed back the far right cohorts quickly and now the battle was almost here. He seemed to be behind the 3rd cohort, which he hoped now faced east. The Gauls were still bleating into the air, he thought he heard battle horns too. It was all sooo loud. And then they were in front of them. Pila were drawn and thrown into the onrushing mass of bodies, some found their mark, others trees. They crash into the shields was as one hundred blacksmiths hammering at once. The lines were uneven and soon he had his gladius drawn and was thrusting at some blue colored warrior.

He took down two , but the battle was raging back and forth all over, he had lost all sense of direction. It was darker now, and Drusus found himself against a tree. Something struck him in his leg and he howled out in pain. Seconds later he saw a large shield. and then Nothingness.

"SIR!!" "MARCUS LIVIUS!!" "SIR!!"

those weren't words, he heard. No it was drums beating inside his head.
Drusus blinked. Still dark, he blinked multiple times. Then finally he saw face, a Roman face.

"What? Where? " He struggled to get out. Someone lifted his helmet off. A rush of water flowed down his head. He tried to shake his head, but that hurt worse. He put his hands up to steady and to try to stop the hammering.
"What happened?"" , he finally got out.

"We were overrun sir. The barbarians run over our line before they encountered the other legions and I guess moved off north. The Consul has retreated back the way we came. Come sir, we must get out of here , there is only me and a few others alive."

Drusus tried to get up, but his leg wouldn't let him. He screamed out in pain. "My leg!"
The legionary moved quickly to inspect Drusus' leg. "It is a deep gash sir, but I does't appear to have hit anything vital." He began bandaging it up. " Do you think you can walk?"
"Yes, I will make it." Drusus replied uncertainly.

They began to track back down the trail with two other injured men. It was dark. Hundreds of men lay all about. They must hurry, there was no telling when the Gauls would come back for the spoils.

Sulla seemed to freeze for a moment, having been bracing himself for a verbal flogging. He hardly noticed the man's hand on his shoulder, or the request to join him over by the map. Eventually, time snapped back into place, and he silently complied.

"As you command, Imperator."

Publius saluted, and then made to leave the tent. It seemed that the fates had decided not to relieve him of his command, as he had prayed and hoped. Instead, he was being cast right into the fire, though at least he could not deny there was an opportunity to claim back in plunder the money he had lost on the crossing.

Moving out into the encampment of the eleventh, he summoned the officers to a summit with as much authority he could muster. Standing before them, he did his best to adopt an imperious air as he announced his plans. At least he had taken his time to ingratiate himself with the centurions, or this could have been far more awkward.

"Now, lads, I know that the commander has said he would dock your pay." Publius began, making use of the limited rhetorical training he'd been given by throwing out seemingly random gestures with hand and arm. "But I spoke to him on your behalf. The Pro-Consul was angry, very much so. He feels let down by you, men he considers his second sons." A few of the centurions grumbled and murmured, so Sulla waited for quiet before continuing.

"But, Pro-Consul Lepidus believes that no man is beyond redemption. Tell the men that we march south, into the lands of our enemies. We have been ordered to carry off whatever we can. Anything that is not nailed to the floor. Cows, Sheep, gold, you name it, it needs to be taken. Naturally, the commander gets his share, but you fine men will keep everything else."

Publius then allowed a silence to settle. To his relief, the centurions began loudly announcing their agreement. A few cheers went up for Lepidus, even, indicative of this restoration of confidence in their Imperator.

"We go at first light. Ready the men, and may Fortuna watch over us all."

At that, Publius stepped down from the makeshift platform. Despite his bold speech, the Tribune was covered in sweat. It was a shame there was no place around for a hot bath. At the least, he could go and find one of the Gallic slave girls and get some entertainment for the evening, indulge in some hot wine, and have a round or three of dice to celebrate his change in fortunes. Perhaps the military life was for him after all.

After half a day of a journey of hiding and then rushing towards the next hiding spot, Lepidus' scavengers finally found the legate and his stragglers along the main path.

Drusus was almost totally worn out, the loss of blood was more dramatic than first realized, and he limped on those cold damp days the rest of his life.

After a day of recovery he made his way to the Pro-Consuls tent to report about the battle, unaware of the dispositions that Ledpidus had made.
"Marcus Aemilius, I, Marcus Livius Drusus , wish to offer my resignation after my failed attempt to lead the men of Legio Gallicia. "
He knelt in front of the commander having no idea of the proper protocol .

Drusus stood and saluted the general. "As you see fit Marcus Aemilius. Do you have any orders for me at this time?" He asked. Drusus was still quite pale, but he was able to keep a stoic posture, those countless hours running his businesses and his household, having some payoff.